


The Edge of Breaking

by FrostInTheWarren



Series: Myth Among Myths [3]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Blood Rites, Hurt/Comfort, I mean it about those dark themes guys, M/M, Misunderstandings, Self-Hatred, Sloooow burn, The one where Jack rescues himself, The one where Pitch is horrible, The one where magic rituals are important, but I don't want to spoil, dark themes, dub-con, it's gonna get kind of bad, read the author's notes for warnings, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-01-13 07:35:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1217845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostInTheWarren/pseuds/FrostInTheWarren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Nature of Belief/The Coming of Someday Spin-off.<br/>Do not need to have read either to read this.<br/>A 'what if Manny hadn't made him invisible?' AU.</p><p>Jack's first memories were of cold, dark, and fear. And then Pitch found him.<br/>Three hundred years later, Jack's locked in a battle for his own freedom, and he's discovering that inner freedom and outer freedom can be two very different things.</p><p>(Or: Pitch does bad things to Jack Frost, Jack Frost learns what it means to love himself, and Bunny's gonna need the patience of a saint.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anybody out there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, ladies and gents, as promised!  
> I do hope you'll like this one.
> 
> Warning: This story is going to have some dark themes later on. Just thought I'd let you know. I'll warn for the chapters, so be on the look out if that sort of thing bothers you. I won't say explicitly what it is, but I will warn.

*          *          *          *          *

Like bone to the human body, and the axle to the wheel, and the song to a bird, and air to the wing, thus is liberty the essence of life. Whatever is done without it is imperfect.

\--Jose Marti, d. 1895, quoted by William Pfaff, _The New Yorker,_ May 27, 1985

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Past:**

            “You are Jack Frost,” the voice said.

            The words echoed in his mind as Jack touched down outside what seemed to be a little village, giddy and bubbling with energy. He was Jack Frost. He didn’t know how the voice knew that, or why Jack himself _hadn’t_ known that, but the voice had been so calm and warm that he listened.

            It had been so dark, so _cold_ and _frightening_. Jack had had to relearn what having air in his lungs felt like, if he’d ever known in the first place. He couldn’t remember ever breathing before now. Had it always felt so glorious? Felt like living?

            There were other things, too. Little things he wasn’t sure how he knew. If he touched that tree it would feel rough and familiar under his palms. If he took a breath he’d smell the bark and sharp cold of ice. How did he know what the tree would feel like? How did he even know it was a _tree_ , or that it had bark that smelled like comfort? Until coming out of the lake, he didn’t think he’d ever even _seen_ a tree before.

            He was glad for it, though. He didn’t want to imagine what it would have been like if he’d come out of the lake completely new, with nothing that was familiar.

            Jack brushed snow from himself, staff clutched in one hand. The staff was the most familiar thing yet. The grooves and notches felt so _right_ in his grip; it was almost like he’d put them there himself. He liked holding it.

            It was with this feeling that Jack entered the village, laughing and joyful as he greeted everyone he came across. Eventually he bent towards a running child. “Excuse me, could you tell me where I—”

            Oh.

            Jack panted, shoulders heaving when the child _passed through him_. Then someone came through him from behind, and he reeled about as another, and another did the same, until he backed out of the village.

            Why had they—what was—how had—he was _real!_ Why had they gone through him? Frightened, he crossed the staff—the comforting staff, the familiar staff—over his chest, reassuring himself that he was touching it and it was real so he must also be _real_.

            A light snowfall began to fall as he turned from the village. He tugged the ball of energy in him that he’d used earlier to call the wind, and it came as he ordered. It lifted him over the trees, but he landed not too long after halfway to the lake. In his upset he’d had too much trouble stabilizing himself in the wind to fly the entire way.

            Jack stumbled through the trees, and it was dark beneath their branches. Patches of moonlight glimmered through in spots; touching on the snow and making it shine. Jack gravitated towards these places as he made his way back to the lake. He calmed his breathing, the steady inhale and exhale soothing the blind panic that had taken hold of him.

            Jack came across a larger patch of open moonlight, and he stood within it. He looked up into the night sky, and his eyes found the full brightness of the moon easily. He bit the inside of his lip, and in a small voice asked, “Why?”

            He waited a few moments, listening for the warm, gentle voice that had told him his name to come. When it didn’t, he blinked in confusion. He frowned. Maybe the Moon just hadn’t heard him? He spoke louder, “Why? Why can’t they see me?”

            The Moon remained silent.

            Jack exhaled in frustration. “Why aren’t you answering me? You can hear me! I know…I know you can.” His last words came out uncertain.

            Silence hovered. Jack prepared to yell, when a quiet snap came from behind him. Jack turned, scanning the darkness past the moonlit patch carefully. “Hello?” he called. “Who’s there?”

            A form separated from the shadows, skin pale with a gray-ish tinge. Bright gold eyes watched him with shock and confusion from a sharp, angular face. Black hair was pushed back on the person’s head, just as dark as the long robe he was dressed in.

            “Hello!” Jack smiled in relief, and when he realized that the person was looking _at_ him, bounced in joy. “Can you see me?”

            The man looked Jack over, eyes jumping back to Jack’s grinning face every few moments. Realization seeped into his gaze, a slow smile taking over his face. “Jackson,” he eventually said.

            “Just Jack, actually, Jack Frost.” Jack pointed up. “The Moon told me so.”

            “The Moon?” The man stepped closer, but never entered the moonlight. “Did he say anything else?”

            “…no.” Jack frowned for a split-second before his grin returned. “Say, how did you know my name was Jack? Well, you said Jackson, but that’s close enough I guess…”

            “Oh,” the man placed a hand over his heart, “we’re great friends, you and I.”

            “Really?” Jack leaned on the staff, tilting his head so the wood pressed to his right temple. “How do you know?”

            “The Moon told me so,” the man assured, nodding with his words.

            “He did?!” Jack jerked his head back, looking up at the Moon with awe. “Why wouldn’t he tell _me_?”

            The man shrugged, his tone a study in sympathy. “Who knows? I’m afraid the Man in the Moon can be quite short for words most of the time. Why, he hardly _ever_ talks to _me_ , and I’ve known him the longest.”

            “That’s a bit rude.”

          The man smiled slowly. “It is, isn’t it?” He held a hand out to Jack. “Come with me, Jack. I’ll take you home.”

            “Home?”

            “With me.”

            Jack hesitated, unease churning his stomach a bit as he stared at the offered hand. “I’m not sure…I-I don’t want to be a burden.”

            “Not a problem, Jack.” The man gold eyes showed nothing but comfort. “I’d be more than happy to have you with me. We are _such_ great friends, after all. Or at least, we will be.”

            The unease continued churning, but it was overshadowed by Jack’s longing for contact with someone who could see him in this world that was both new and familiar. He reached out, but his hand hovered at the edge of the moonlight. “What’s your name?” he asked.

            “Pitch Black,” the man answered, and as Jack’s hand finally came out of the moonlight and into his, he smiled sharply. “The Bogeyman.”

            Pitch closed his fingers over Jack’s.

            For some reason, the action scared Jack a little more than the cold and the dark. By the time he realized this, it was already too late.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

**Present:**

            The boy that stared back at him from the mirror was a pathetic thing, Jack thought. He stared into his own eyes, blue and dull, and it seemed permanently stained under with deep, dark bruises. When was the last time he’d been allowed to sleep without nightmares? It had to have been a few months, at least.

            He had bitten his own lips raw, an act he’d been punished for. Pitch didn’t like for Jack to bleed. Bite marks and bruises left from grabbing hands and ropes were different, of course. Those were marks of possession. Pitch said they showed their bond. Jack knew better than to protest.

            Dressed in a black button up with long sleeves and black trousers, Jack’s skin was too pale in comparison. Looking himself over, though he couldn’t see below the waist, sitting at the vanity as he was, Jack decided he seemed washed out. No, more than that, Jack observed in the glass.

            The boy in the mirror looked _dead_.

            Not for the first time, Jack found he hated that boy.

            He took a shallow breath, and was almost relieved that he could still breathe. When had breathing stopped feeling like living?

            He sighed, and closed his eyes, trying to abate the nerves that trembled in the back of his mind. Soon, he assured himself. The plan had already been set. Three hundred years, and after today he’d be free. So long as Rime kept to his promise, and there weren’t any big complications, he’d finally be able to rid himself of this place. He’d practiced the words over and over already. He was sure he could remember them correctly.

            There was a brief moment of worry as he remembered the contingency his plan relied on. Only when the need is great, and the intentions are good, the book had said. Jack reassured himself that his intentions were good, and his need more than great. It would work.

            It _had_ to work.

            “Jack?”

            Jack glanced at the doorway in the mirror, and Pitch smiled back at him. “Yes?”

            “Are you almost ready?” Pitch crossed their bedroom, and placed his hands on Jack’s shoulders. “You must be excited to get out.”

            “I am,” Jack said neutrally.

            “You’ve been such a good little Consort,” Pitch noted. “I’m glad I can reward you this way.”

            Jack automatically responded. “Thank you.”

            Pitch nodded. He picked up the brush from the vanity top. “Have you brushed your hair yet?” Jack shook his head. “Then I shall do it for you.”

            He began brushing Jack’s hair, an act that was not uncommon. Pitch enjoyed taking over these simple grooming activities, and not letting Jack do them himself. Pitch claimed it was also bonding. At one time, Jack might have even believed him.

            The brush was the only sound in the room for a while, its rhythmic strokes gentle on his scalp as it straightened out his short, unruly hair.

            As he attended his task, Pitch began to speak. “You remember the rules, don’t you?” Jack nodded. “Recite them for me.”

            “I am not to speak.”

            “Good. What else?”

            “I am not to leave your side.”

            “ _Very_ good, Jack. And the last rule?”

            “I am not to take off the cloak.”

            Pitch made a pleased sound. “You are such a good Consort, Jack.” Pitch locked gazes with Jack in the mirror. “Do you remember why we have the rules?”

            The words were natural, practiced, constant. He’d said them too many times before for them not to be. “Because I am a danger to others. If I’m not careful, I might accidentally hurt them. Or they might want to hurt me.”

            “Why would they want to hurt you, Jack?” Pitch asked calmly.

            “Because they would fear me, and think I’m a monster. And because I’m beautiful, and they would be jealous.”

           “Yes, they would.” Pitch set the brush down. He cupped Jack’s chin in his left hand, and tilted his head back. In this position, Jack was forced to look up at Pitch. He threaded his right hand through Jack’s hair, gripping the strands gently, but firmly. “And the final reason?”

            “Because you protect me from them, and I can trust you.”

            Pitch smiled. “I only do what’s best for you.” He paused. “Do you love me Jack?”

            “I love you.” Jack wondered vaguely when the word had lost meaning to him.

           Pitch kissed Jack’s forehead, and released him, but only after he’d skimmed his left hand down Jack’s throat. “Finish getting ready,” he ordered, “we’ll be leaving soon.”

            Pitch paused in his exit, pointing to the bed and the garment laying on it with an air of warning. It was a cloak. Pitch had gotten it especially for Jack. It was large, thick, black, and hooded. It would hide Jack’s body, and with the hood up it would shield even more of him. Unless he looked directly at someone, they would be unable to see his face when he wore it. Considering Jack’s tendency to look at the ground, such an action seemed unlikely. “Do not forget the cloak, Jackson,” he reminded.

            “I won’t.

            Pitch left. Jack looked back into the mirror, and the dead boy stared back.

            He wanted nothing more than to break it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't been too active in writing these past weeks. I wanted to deal with some stuff before getting back on the ball. But it's dealt with, I'm not stressing as much, and I can get back to having fun with my friends. Thanks for reading!


	2. I'm out on the edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update is late.  
> Very late.  
> HEY DOES ANYONE WANNA WRITE THESE PAPERS FOR ME OR DO THESE GROUP PROJECTS FOR ME? HUH? NO?  
> Yeah, I figured.

*          *          *          *          *

 

Once a word has been allowed to escape, it can never be recalled.

\--Horace, _Epistles_ , Book I, 20 B.C.

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Past:**

            It started with excuses.

            Jack had been with Pitch a week. Pitch had shown Jack all around his underground home, from the room they’d be sharing (with two beds, but Pitch had explained the proximity was for Jack’s own safety) to the great library with rows upon rows of towering shelves that disappeared into the darkness of the high ceiling. The same library where they now lounged by the single fireplace, surrounded by armchairs, couches, and low tables.

            Jack rolled onto his back on the plush black cushioned couch, tilting his head back. Pitch sat beside next to him, and Jack’s hair brushed the side of Pitch’s leg when he moved. He looked upside-down at the other, who quietly read a small book bound in dark green leather. “Pitch? I want to go outside.”

            Pitch never looked away from the pages of his book. “You can’t,” Pitch reasoned, so very certain, “it’s dangerous out there, Jack.”

            “But why? Why is it dangerous?”

            “Oh Jack, there are many reasons.” Pitch set the book on his lap, fingers reaching for Jack’s forehead as he met curious blue eyes with gold. He brushed Jack’s hair from his eyes with soothing fingers. “There are many who would hurt you. Your magic is dangerous Jack.”

            Jack sat up, twisting around so that he kneeled on the cushions facing Pitch. “But I don’t use it! You took my staff for safekeeping so that I _wouldn’t_ hurt people!”

            “But they won’t care about that.” Pitch cupped Jack’s face in his hands, forcing the boy to meet his bright gold eyes. “They won’t stop to consider your selflessness. They will see you and think _monster_. That’s all they’ll ever see you as, Jack.”

            “I’m _not_ ,” Jack said emphatically, “a monster.”

            “ _I_ know you aren’t Jack.” Pitch’s thumb traced the underside of Jack’s left eye. “And the best way to prove that is to stay out of sight, where it’s impossible to prove them right. Manny told me to find you so I could protect you, after all. You should listen to me.”

            Jack bit the inside of his lip. “…you’re right. If Manny says so, then…I’ll listen to you.”

            “I only care for your safety, Jack.” Pitch smiled softly. “Everything I do, I do for you. Besides, there are many out there who would be jealous if they looked upon you. You are very beautiful, Jack.”

            Jack looked to the side, flattered and bashful. “Thank you, but wouldn’t handsome be a better word?”

            “No,” Pitch denied. “Beautiful.”

            And Jack let it go. It was just a word, after all.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            A month later found them in the same place. Jack stared into the fireplace blankly, curled up in a ball on the opposite side of the couch from Pitch.

            He was content to continue like that, until Pitch sounded a heavy sigh and curled his fingers around Jack’s ankle. Jack lifted his head. He looked down his body to Pitch, who was watching him with lidded eyes.

            “You still want to go outside?” Pitch asked.

            Jack’s eyes widened, and he sat up. “Yes!”

            Pitch sighed again, alerting Jack to how much trouble he must have been causing Pitch, and guilt churned beneath his excitement. He felt bad troubling his protector, but…

            Pitch’s home was dark. There was no natural light that existed in such a place. It was also large, with too many connecting caverns and tunnels for him to ever navigate easily. Despite how much space there was, somehow Jack felt more and more cramped as time went on. He needed to get out. He wanted to _move_ , he wanted to—

            …he wanted to _fly._

            Jack quickly shuttered that thought away. He had discovered he could only fly with his staff, and he wasn’t allowed to touch that. It made him dangerous, after all.

            Pitch squeezed Jack’s ankle a bit too gently to be called tight, and nodded. “Alright then. We can go out later.”

            Jack grabbed Pitch’s sleeve. “You mean it? You promise?”

            Pitch nodded. He let go of Jack’s ankle, and instead ran his fingers through Jack’s hair. “I promise.”

            Jack lurched forward and hugged him. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

            Pitch’s hands settled on Jack’s back. “It’s troublesome and will cause me some difficulty, but since you want it, that’s fine.”

            The guilt came back. “I’m sorry I’m causing you problems.”

            “As long as you realize that, it’s alright.”

            Pitch’s smile felt a little sharp against the top of his head, but Jack didn’t pull back to look.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Jack got his chance to go outside a week later.

            “Pitch, look!” Jack spread his arms and legs in the snow, moving them back and forth, and hopped out weightlessly. “An angel!”

            Pitch raised a brow dryly. “I see.”

            Jack’s smile slipped a bit. He turned back, and continued playing by the lake he’d first come out of, which was close to the tunnel entrance of Pitch’s home. Jack built small snowmen and castles that were more piles than structure. As he played a vague disenchantment settled over him. But it wasn’t as fun playing by himself, was it? Pitch wouldn’t play, though; he didn’t find it fun like Jack did.

            Huh. It was the strangest thing, but playing like this, even with Pitch nearby…was kind of lonely, wasn’t it?

            Snow began to fall in fat, soft looking puffs. Jack turned his face up, and watched the sky. The snow that fell on his face took longer to melt than on a normal person. He blinked when the flakes clung to his eyelids, brushing them away with the small movement.

            “Jack,” Pitch called, “it’s time to go back.”

            Jack’s hands lay limp at his sides, and he continued looking up into the sky. Lonely or not, he didn’t want to go back. Not just yet.

            His lips parted slightly. “But…I don’t…”

            “Jack,” and Pitch’s voice was lower now, more authoritative, “it’s dangerous, remember? It’s time to go.”

            “…okay.”

            Jack went to Pitch’s side, Pitch’s hand falling naturally to Jack’s shoulder as he steered them from the lake. Pitch was very touch-y with him, Jack noticed. He didn’t mind it, though. Pitch was his only bond in this world. It was natural they’d become close. It made him a bit uncomfortable sometimes, but he could endure it for Pitch, who did so much for him.

            As they left, Jack glanced back, just once.

            What Jack didn’t realize then was that these outside trips would lessen over the next few years, until eventually, they disappeared entirely. A time would come when he would berate himself for not looking back more often.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

**Present:**

           

            Aster tugged at the positioning of his bandolier, relieved he’d gotten away with not wearing something formal. From his position at the back of the hall, he looked around the grand ballroom North’d set up for the gathering. The once-a-century event was mainly held as a way for more powerful spirits to keep tabs on one another and build acquaintanceships, but Aster figured it was a load of hogwash anyway.

            Everyone knew that if you _really_ wanted to know what was going on in the mythical world, you just had to keep one ear to the grapevine. And Aster had a very sturdy grapevine, and very good hearing. Which is why he knew who to expect to arrive to the night’s gathering, and was keeping an eye out just for him.

            “A good turnout this year, yes?” North clapped Aster’s shoulder with affectionate friendliness. “Yeti have done wonders keeping up with snack demands!”

            Aster nodded. “Biggest haul in centuries, I’d say.” His eyes sharpened on a few members of the crowd. “Though not quite the types we’re used to.”

            North’s jovial face sobered. He as well noticed the new additions to the usual crowd. “It is not often we have blood elves and poltergeists for guests.”

            “It’s not often we have necromancers or Baba Yaga herself in attendance, either,” Aster added neutrally, though his eyes were narrowed. “And we both know who we have to blame for the additions.”

            Just then the doors at the front of the hall were opened, and the evening’s final guests were admitted. Amongst them was Pitch Black.

            “Speak of the Nightmare King,” Aster muttered sourly.

            North nodded somberly, but paused in the middle of the motion. He squinted his eyes, leaning forward slightly. “That is Pitch, but, who is that with him?”

            Aster, who’d been focused on Pitch, spotted the person North spoke of. Slight in stature, hidden entirely by a thick black cloak, the person stood a few steps behind Pitch. He couldn’t get a good look at the face either, with their head turned down as it was, and the cloak’s hood blocking everything else. His ears pulled back as he tried to pinpoint who it might be.

            “It couldn’t be…,” North murmured.

            Aster turned slightly in North’s direction, but kept his eyes on the newcomer. “What? You know who it is, North?”

            “I’m not certain,” North cautioned, “but, it could be his Consort.”

            Aster stiffened. “You think so?”

            North’s gaze on him was calm and steady. “Bunny…” North knew Aster’s feelings for the Nightmare King’s Consort were less than pleasant.

            In fact, the simplest thing to call them was _hatred_.

            It was a situation unique to Aster alone. No one else had ever _seen_ Pitch’s Consort in order to have developed any kind of true opinion on the person. Pitch kept his the boy guarded obsessively. According to Pitch his Consort, Jack Frost, was of a cripplingly shy and fragile disposition, and he feared for Jack’s safety outside of their home. Pitch bragged of his Jack's beauty regularly, lauded his Consort with praise to those who would hear. To any who listened, Pitch was quite the doting lover.

            But Aster had reason more than any to hate Jack Frost. It had only been once, and he’d only seen the other’s bare feet and cloaked body as he disappeared into the forest with Pitch in 1968, but after the events of that day…

            Yes, E. Aster Bunnymund had _very_ good reason to hate Jack Frost.

            The other Guardians, as far as he knew, shared in his dislike after he’d told them of the incident, but not to the same degree.

            Aster walked toward Pitch.

            “Bunny,” North stopped him briefly, “where are you going?”

            “To greet our guests,” Aster answered coolly.

            North made no move to dissuade him, other than to add, “Please do not start a fight.”

            “Don’t worry North,” he reassured. “I won’t.”

            North watched him go, worry lines on a face unsuited to such things.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Jack was careful to follow Pitch’s orders. Don’t speak, cloak on, never leave his side. He watched the ground to be extra safe. He had to keep Pitch happy with him if he wanted this to work. They couldn’t leave early. They had to stay, at least until Rime arrived.

            Jack listened with half an ear as Pitch spoke to various spirits, ignoring the curious whispers that surrounded them.

            As someone approached them, Pitch sent a hissed reminder to stay close at Jack over his shoulder.

            “Hello, Pitch Black.” The voice was elderly, deep, scratchy and female. It carried with it a heavy Slavic accent.

            “Baba Yaga,” Pitch greeted gently.

            “This is the first time I have seen you at one of these gatherings,” she said. “And you’ve brought the elusive Consort with you, even.”

            “Yes,” Pitch hedged, stepping slightly in front of Jack. “I felt it only right he be here to witness one of my greatest triumphs. My presence is a show of power to the Guardians. They could not keep me trapped in the dark any longer.”

            “Your rise in power these past few centuries has been impressive,” Baba Yaga acknowledged.

            “They can’t stay strong forever. They have become lax over time; where I have only grown, without ever having to take them down. What does that say for the future of those like us, Baba Yaga?”

            “Many things,” she said quietly. Then she laughed, a sound like scraping metal. “But you should be wary, Pitch Black. Too much confidence is likely to get you killed.”

            “As you say. Now, my Consort and I must see to refreshments. I shall see you another time.”

            “You will.”

            Pitch swept away, and Jack, curious, took the chance to peek at Baba Yaga as he passed by her.

            Long white hair in clumped hanks fell across her shoulders, clothed in a long black and red peasant dress. Her face was heavily wrinkled, and in her smile showed rows of iron teeth. Her hands were spindly, her legs boney, and her nails, long and chipped, were dirty with rot at the beds. A sharp nose protruded from her face. Thick eyebrows lined the bottom of her forehead like pale, living things. And her eyes, dark blue and intelligent, were frightfully focused on Jack’s.

            Jack sucked in a hushed breath, and looked back to at the ground.

            He heard Pitch pause ahead of him, and stopped obediently a few paces behind.

            “Hello, _Rabbit_.”

            “Pitch.”

            Jack’s eyes widened. There were only a few people Pitch spoke about with such vitriol in his tone, and only one he called ‘Rabbit.’ Though he didn’t look up to confirm, Jack knew the person before them had to be E. Aster Bunnymund.

            “Up to your usual tricks?” Bunnymund said. Jack had never heard an accent quite like that before, but considering the only voices he knew well were Pitch’s and Rime’s, it was hardly surprising.

            “ _Me?_ How rude of you, and here I am, a guest. But really, what should I have expected of an animal?”

            Bunnymund growled in a way that made Jack tense. His movement must have shifted Bunnymund’s attention onto him, because the next words out of his mouth were, “Aren’t you going to _introduce_ me to your plus one?”

            Silence hovered, and it was with a heavy air of reluctance that Pitch drew Jack to his side with a hand at his lower back. “This is my Consort, Jack Frost.”

            Jack, remembering the rule not to speak, only nodded, but he snuck a peek at the other. It was only for a moment, and he hadn’t seen much, but what he did see were Bunnymund’s eyes. Bright emerald green, and lovelier than anything Jack had ever witnessed.        

            They had also gleamed with a molten hatred that rolled Jack’s stomach.

            “Say,” Bunnymund asked with false curiosity, “weren’t you around in ’68?”

            In an instant, Jack almost wanted to throw up.

            “Ah, yes.” Pitch spoke with fond chagrin. “You’ll have to forgive him that. These things happen, you know.”

            “Of course.” Bunnymund’s anger seeped into his words. “You’ll have to excuse me. I think people are about to start paying their respects to the host, and North would want all of the Guardians present with him when it starts.”

            “I understand,” Pitch responded genially. As Bunnymund walked away, Pitch’s fingers clenched in Jack’s back. “You’re trembling, Jackson.”

            Jack bit his lip.

            “I told you they would hate you,” Pitch whispered.

            Jack nodded, but remained quiet.

            They fell back into their routine after that. They never did visit the refreshments table, but Jack didn’t mind. His nerves grew as the evening wore on, and he didn’t think he would have been able to keep anything down, anyway. Jack stayed in place, a few steps behind Pitch, as the Nightmare King mingled.

            Eventually Pitch sighed wearily. “I suppose we must pay our regards to the host. How tedious.”

            Pitch walked leisurely across the hall, and with Jack behind him, didn’t notice the change in atmosphere around Jack. Jack’s nerves jittered down his spine. This was it. This was the moment.

            Someone tapped Jack’s back lightly. Rime whispered, “Good luck,” and suddenly Jack’s staff was being pressed into his hand.

            It had happened in barely a moment, but in that single action Jack gained the power to complete his plan.

            Pitch stopped before the Guardians, and began to speak words of false greeting, but that didn’t matter as much now. Jack halted no more than four feet behind Pitch. He lifted his head fully for the first time that evening, and stared at the back of Pitch’s head.

            He would rather be free and hated…

            In his left hand, Jack formed a sharp sliver of ice. He adjusted his grip on his staff with his right hand, and took a deep breath.

            …than hidden and broken.

            Jack squeezed his hand around the sharp ice, slashing open his palm, and spun in a swift circle. His blood dotted the ground around him, as he’d wanted it to. Pitch was just turning to look at him when Jack raised his arm and slammed the butt of his staff down. Jack’s true magic, so unfamiliar to him, shot through him and to the staff, sending out a burst of ice that cleared a large circle around him.

            “To the Guardians of Childhood,” he began, his blood beginning to glow on the floor around him, “I beseech a Blood Rite of Protection.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it looks like chapters for this story might be coming more sporadically than I thought. Part of it is how much harder my foreign language class has gotten, and part of it is projects and papers for other classes. And it's going to be this way the rest of the semester, so JOY FOR ME YAY.  
> Enough of Frosty whining.  
> Anyway, rather than weekly, it looks like these chapters are going to be averaged at around 10 days +/- 3. So anywhere from one week to almost two weeks. I am so very sorry about that, but I barely have time to even read fanfics right now (LOOK AT ALL THE JACKRABBIT UPDATED STORIES I CAN'T READ HAHAHAHA *dies a little inside*), let alone hop on AIM with my friends and write. *gross sobbing*  
> Oh look, I whined more! :D


	3. But I miss it now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm not even gonna try and explain the lateness away.  
> School comes first guys, sorry. Honors classes are tough.  
> I'm not out of fandom or anything like that, so don't worry! This story is still being worked on and updated. (Even if it means outlining in class when I should be taking notes. xD)

*          *          *          *          *

 

There is a time for departure, even when there is no certain place to go.

\--Tennessee Williams, _Camino Real_ , 1953

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Past:**

            “You snuck out?”

            Jack flinched at Pitch’s tone, and tugged at his fingers nervously. “I’m _sorry,_ okay? I just…” Jack clenched his hands into fists in front of him, and couldn’t build the courage to look up at Pitch. “I’ve been in here for so long…you never take me outside anymore. I just wanted to see the sun.”

            Silence hovered for a few moments, until Pitch sighed heavily, wearily. “You’ll never understand unless I show you, will you?”

            “Huh?” Jack finally glanced up when Pitch grabbed his upper arm, not tight, but firm. Pitch pulled Jack forward, and he stumbled the first few steps as he was led into the room with the cages hanging from the ceiling. Jack spared them a look, and then Pitch was pulling him down a hallway he’d never visited, hidden in shadows as it was. The hall was lit sparsely, a few candle sconces scattered along the entire length.

            “Pitch?” Jack asked nervously. “Where are we going?”

            “You scared me, Jackson,” Pitch explained calmly. He wouldn’t look at Jack, disappointment slicking his words, and Jack’s sudden guilt rolled his stomach. “But I can’t expect you to understand my fear, so I am going to show you how frightened I was.”

            They stopped in front of a door that blended perfectly with the wall. Jack wouldn’t have even known there _was_ a door if Pitch hadn’t pushed it open. Jack looked into the black space beyond, not a single speck of light revealing what was in the room itself.

            His eyes scanned the darkness, wary. “What’s this?”

            “Punishment, Jackson.” Pitch pushed Jack into the room. He stumbled and tripped, catching himself on his hands and knees. He spun on one knee, looking back at the door just as Pitch was closing it. “The only way for you to understand how afraid _I_ was, is for you to experience it yourself.”

            The door shut, and Jack was left in total darkness. “Pitch?”

            Jack stood, feeling dust cling to his knees and feet. He took a few steps forward, hands in front of him. The darkness was disorienting, and confused him. Was he walking straight? He wasn’t sure.

            “Pitch?” he called once more. “You aren’t seriously going to keep me here, right?” If he could just find the door…

            Something touched his back.

            He screamed and spun, waving his arms frantically around him. “Who’s there?” Without light he had trouble establishing balance, uncertain where to place his feet, and as he grew more frightened the more disoriented he became. “Who’s there?!”

            He backed up slowly, hoping to eventually find a wall to orient himself with. When after twenty steps (that he counted in his mind like precious gemstones) he had still yet to find a wall, he began to think that there was no end to the room. It stretched on and on in the darkness, looming and impossible.

            He began to fear that even if Pitch did come back for him, (which he had to, right? Pitch was his protector, his only friend; his friend wouldn’t leave him, even if Jack had upset him by sneaking out, right?) he wouldn’t be able to see the light from the door when he did. He’d wandered into the room too deep. He wouldn’t find his way out.

            Pitch would come back to forgive Jack, and Jack wouldn’t be there. Jack was lost in the darkness.

            Jack’s chest felt tight as he continued to grasp at nothing. His breath became stuttery, panicked. He lost his footing and fell to his knees. He scrabbled at the dirt, the only solid thing he could feel in the endless dark. He stayed on the ground, crawling forward, trying to find the wall.

            “Pitch?” His voice was high, frightened, too loud. Something brushed the bottom of his foot, and he jerked forward. “Who’s there?! Pitch? Pitch, if that’s you, please, I’m sorry!”

            He curled into a ball, fearful of whatever was in the darkness with him. It would have helped if his voice at least echoed in the smothering quiet, so he could confirm with himself the size of the room, but it didn’t. There was nothing but the silence, and he began to think he could hear the sound of his own terrified heart beating in his ears.

            At that point it didn’t matter that he’d been angry with Pitch for throwing him in the room. Any anger he’d had had faded in the presence of his fear. Now, the only thing he wanted was for Pitch to return and take him from this place. He wanted light; he wanted _comfort_.

            A sound pierced the air, high and desperate, and it was only the ache in his throat that made Jack aware it was his own frightened keening.

            “Pitch?” he sobbed, tears gathering in his eyes. “Pitch, please, I won’t do it again, promise I won’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

            There was no answer. Jack pulled his legs to his chest, curling into a ball as tight as he could, and buried his face in his knees.

            He wasn’t sure how long he’d been like that before the scraping sound of the door opening came.

            Jack’s face shot up, dirt, tears, and snot messing his cheeks. Ten feet away, light came in through the door as Pitch held it open. “Jack?” he called.

            Jack whined, relief choking him as he scrambled for the door. He threw himself into Pitch’s arms, sobbing. “I’m so sorry; I’m so sorry.”

            Pitch closed the door to the room, and sank to the floor in the hallway with Jack. The little light from the sconces was heavenly to Jack’s eyes. Jack clung to Pitch’s chest, whimpering apologies as Pitch pet his hair and pulled Jack into his lap.

            “Do you understand now, how afraid I was? That’s how I feel every time you aren’t at my side; when you disobey the rules I put down only so I can protect you.”

            Jack nodded, relaxing under the hands that ran through his hair and up his back. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

            Pitch pressed his face to the top of Jack’s head, and breathed in deep through his mouth. “Good.”

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Jack learned very quickly to obey Pitch’s rules. Between the guilt of the trouble his disobedience caused his only friend, and his own fear of the Room, Jack was quick to give in to Pitch’s demands, no matter how uncomfortable it secretly made him to do so.

            It wasn’t long after that first incident that Pitch proposed the nightmares. Just once or twice a week, he promised. Jack’s fear would help give Pitch power, after all, and he needed that to protect Jack.

            Jack, uncertain but trusting, agreed.

 

**Present:**

           

            The pause that followed his declaration gave Jack the opportunity to begin chanting the necessary words to complete the spell. His confidence was bolstered by the fact that it was working at all. As he spoke, the words came foreign from his tongue. It was a language he’d rarely gotten the chance to speak; one he’d spent over forty years teaching himself and practicing over and over in his mind and aloud the few times he’d been left completely alone. He couldn’t afford to mess it up now.

            “Jackson,” Pitch said lowly. He stood just outside the circle of ice and blood on the floor, his eyes dark with anger that didn’t show on his face. That anger nearly made Jack falter; it was an anger he’d only seen once before.

            “Stop this, Jackson.” Pitch’s words held a hint of steel, and Jack knew it was the kind that could form razors.

            Continuing to chant, Jack shook his head, realizing belatedly that at some point his hood had fallen back. Pitch’s lips tightened into a harsh line. Pitch attempted to enter the circle, and was knocked back by an invisible force, keeping him out. A quiet snarl hissed between his teeth.

            Relief loosened the chokehold of fear on Jack’s chest. It was working. The magic was working. Pitch couldn’t enter the circle.

            He finished the words. His blood glowed on the floor amidst the ice, bright and imbued with magic. The final syllable of the spell hovered in the air, awaiting an answer from one of the Guardians. Cradling his bleeding hand, Jack searched amongst the Guardians until he locked eyes with a golden gaze that was wholly unlike the one he was used to. Sanderson Mansnoozie, Dreamweaver and Guardian, stared back.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Sandy knew this magic, and from the glance he sent at Aster, it looked like the Pooka did as well. Old, rare, created in times long before this winter spirit had even been a thought, he and Aster _would_ be the only ones who recognized it.

            But above all, meant to be used in only the direst, most desperate of circumstances. Blood Rites were very serious pieces of magic, and a Blood Rite of Protection even more so. This spell came with a failsafe to keep it from being abused; it would only work if the caster was in need of urgent, immediate protection.

            And in that moment it was working full force for Jack Frost, Consort of the Nightmare King.

            “Jackson,” Pitch beguiled, hands held up soothingly. “Stop this, darling. We can go home and forget this ever happened.”

            Jack never looked at him, keeping his eyes locked with Sandy’s. That, more than anything, was telling. Sandy made to go forward, but paused when beside him, Aster made the first move forward.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

 

            For a moment Jack feared that none of the Guardians would respond, until of all people, the Easter Bunny approached the circle.

            “From what,” Bunny said seriously, the green eyes Jack remembered from the single peek he’d taken from under his hood burning on his face, “do you seek protection from?”

            Jack released a shuddering breath. “Pitch Black.”

            “Jack,” Pitch cut in sharply.

            Jack ignored him. Bunny shared a focused look with the other Guardians. He turned back to Jack and nodded. “We will grant it.”

           Light flashed, and when it faded, so did the glow from Jack’s blood. Pitch immediately strode into the circle, reaching for Jack, only to be forced to a stop three feet away by the magic of the Blood Rite. He stared down at Jack, and only now did Jack finally stare back. The silence that had dominated since Jack began his ritual was broken as chatter broke out around the room.

            Quietly, so only Jack would hear him, Pitch murmured, “You will regret doing this, Jackson.”

            Pitch swept away from him, the crowd parting for him. He left with only the sound of the heavy doors closing behind him and the stranded Consort to ever imply he’d been there. Jack clutched his hands to his chest, dropping his staff as a surprised gasp spilled past his lips.

            It had worked.

            _It had worked._

            (But for only so long, his mind reminded, and he ignored it.)

            “I am thinking,” North boomed, “it is time for night to end, yes?” He clapped his big hands together, the sound like a thunderclap in the room, and smiled at the guests. “Thank you for coming! We are seeing you at next gathering.”

            He and the yetis that manned the refreshment tables began herding people out, some more resistant than others to be moved. Many of them stared at Jack as they went, fascinated, none of them ever having seen the face of Pitch’s mysterious Consort before.

            When the room finally cleared, the Guardians took the chance to approach Jack, avoiding the patches of ice and blood on the floor.

            “This will have to be cleaned later,” North mumbled.

            Toothiana fluttered in front of Jack. “So, you’re Jack Frost,” she said, looking him over curiously.

            Jack nodded. “I am.”

            She took a breath. “Well, Jack, perhaps we should discuss this further in one of North’s sitting rooms.”

            Jack opened his mouth to agree, but was cut off by another voice coming from the open doors.

            “Actually, I have some business with him first, if you don’t mind.”

            Jack turned around, a tiny smile on his face. “Rime.”

            The winter sprite grinned lips that were only a shade darker than his skin sharply, spiky white hair tipped with unforgiving ice. Rime strode into the room confidently, nodding his head with healthy respect at the Guardians. He paused in front of Jack. “I’m glad everything went well.”

            Jack smiled gratefully. “It wouldn’t have if not for your help.”

            “About that…” Rime’s eyes narrowed with his smile. “I’d like to collect my payment.”

            Jack’s face became blank with the ease of flipping a card. “You absolutely won’t change your mind?”

            “You know what I want, Jack.”

            There was something sad in the set of Jack’s mouth, and the lidding of his eyes. “I do,” he admitted.

           There was a hush burdened by the weight of unspoken years hanging between them, and a shared resignation. Jack had known Rime for decades, had based his plan around the other’s cooperation. There was a time when Jack would have considered them friends.

            But friends were not something common with winter sprites, and when Rime realized exactly what his feelings for Jack were developing to be, he’d decided to ask for the only price that would forever sever their ties. The only thing Jack had miraculously managed to save of himself.

            His first kiss.

            Rime wasn’t caring enough to let himself give his heart over to Jack; it wasn’t in his nature. But he was selfish enough that he wanted a piece of Jack’s—even if that piece was tainted with bitterness.

            Rime leaned forward, and when Jack didn’t pull away, he continued, until their lips were pressed in a kiss that wasn’t light enough to be considered chaste. Jack never reciprocated pressure, and neither closed their eyes, preferring to watch each other. When Rime pulled back, Jack’s face was a mixture of anger and regretful sadness.

            “This will be the last time I see you,” Jack said.

            “I know,” Rime accepted easily. He smiled a touch fondly, and then walked towards the door. He waved over his shoulder as he left. “Goodbye, Jack.”

            Jack watched him go. “Goodbye, Rime.”

            The doors were closed behind Rime, and Jack stared at his feet morosely for a moment before closing his eyes. He took a somber breath, and when he looked back at the Guardians he was calm, any sign he’d been upset hidden behind a blank expression.

            “So,” he said, “you wanted to talk?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger, but also the resolution of Rime. Don't worry about him too much, he's only semi-important to the plot, and his part's pretty much done now.  
> Thank you for being patient with my updating. I hope you enjoyed! :D


	4. I pretend I'm alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL LOOK WHO'S NOT DEAD.  
> Yes, this chapter has been looooong overdue, and I apologize. But! Finals are over, my papers are written, my group projects from hell have been taken care of, I have internet again, and I don't have to worry about the power being turned off randomly for a week. (It has been an eventful, stressful month.)  
> I do plan to get a job for the summer, but I'll still have plenty more time for writing and happiness than I did this past month. :D Expect the next chapter up by Friday, by the way. I've already made decent headway into it as I'm going on a writing spree these next few days. (Finishing this chapter was actually a reward to myself. :D) No more month-long breaks, I swear on my Evil Author-ness.

*          *          *          *          *

 

Between the idea and the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the Shadow.

—T.S. Elliot, _The Hollow Men_ , 1925

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Past:**

            “You know,” Jack said, “I can cut my own hair.”

            Pitch never paused, scissors snipping a piece of hair behind Jack’s ear. “Not _well_ ,” Pitch refuted.

            Jack pursed his lips, staring ahead into the vanity mirror. He watched Pitch’s reflection, gripping the plush cushion of the wide stool he sat upon. Pitch’s expression was serene, thin lips twitched upward a tiny fraction. When Pitch raised his eyes to meet Jack’s in the mirror, Jack turned his gaze down to the top of the vanity.

            “Who cares if it’s not well done? It’s _my_ hair.” Jack bit the inside of his lip, annoyed. His brows furrowed fiercely, creating heavy fissures on his forehead.

            “You’re dipping your head,” Pitch reprimanded, and reached around to tilt Jack’s chin up. “If you move too much the cut will be uneven.”

            “You’re ignoring me,” Jack accused, his annoyance spilling into his tone. He directed his eyes once more to the mirror, glaring at Pitch’s reflection.

            “I’m not,” Pitch denied. Their gazes locked in the mirror again, and Pitch sighed. His little grin fell to a small frown, eyelids dropping half-mast over golden eyes. “Indulge me, please,” Pitch entreated. “Won’t you let me do this for you, Jack?”

            They stared each other down for a few heavy seconds, but it was Jack that looked away first. “Fine,” he said lowly.

            Pitch’s self-satisfied look was unnoticed by Jack. Pitch went back to cutting his hair, and for a few moments there was only the sound of the scissors, and small tugs to the hair on the back of his head whenever he began to dip his chin. Jack felt his eyes droop in the peace of the moment, the near-constant exhaustion that seemed to shadow his footsteps recently edging in to remind him of its presence.

            “You seem tired, Jack.” Pitch’s fingers skimmed through the hair above Jack’s ear, nails scratching softly against his skin.

            Jack exhaled in a gentle _whoosh_ , a sigh tumbling after. “I’m fine,” he hummed.

            “What’s wrong?” Pitch set the scissors on the vanity, and cupped the left side of Jack’s face.

            Jack leaned into the touch, eyes blinking drowsily. “Nightmares,” he whispered.

            “Ah,” Pitch voiced. His words took on an air of scolding. “You know I have to do it, Jack. I need the power to _protect_ you.”

            “I _know_ ,” Jack said. “It just makes me so tired.”

            Pitch picked up a comb from the vanity top, and began running the teeth through Jack’s hair. Jack made a noise of contentment, and slowly nodded off into sleep. Pitch smiled down at him, and picked the shorter male up after setting the comb aside, cradling Jack against his chest. Pitch carried Jack to the bed behind them, and set Jack on it. For now this room was Pitch’s alone, but in time…

            Pitch’s lips pulled into a sharp grin. In time.

            For now, however, he would settle for this. Jack smiled in his sleep, and Pitch brushed Jack’s pale bangs from his forehead. “You must be having an adorable dream,” he murmured. “There’s just one thing missing.” Black sand came fluidly to his fingertips, and seemed to almost drip onto Jack’s forehead and into his hair. “A touch of fear.”

            Jack’s eyes creased at the corners, and he twisted his head to the side. A distressed sound rumbled in the back of his throat as he slept. His smile disappeared.

            Pitch breathed in the scent of Jack’s fear, the taste heady on his tongue. “There,” he muttered, “much better.”

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Jack dreamed of a lake, and darkness, and cold. He dreamed of reaching into the dark, but never grabbing. And, just as he always did in his nightmares, he dreamed of a voice that screamed and screamed and screamed his name.

            _“Jack!”_

*          *          *          *          *

 

**Present:**

           

            The Pole had far more rooms than Jack had ever anticipated. Rarely indulged curiosity bubbled under his skin, and with each room they passed Jack took a second to glance inside as they walked by. He saw kitchens with huge ovens, laundry rooms with tubs of soapy water and washboards, and even one room where Yeti seemed to congregate and socialize around a fireplace.

            He remembered this feeling. He used to feel it exploring the home he and Pitch shared, the multitude of tunnels and rooms that branched on and on in torch filled hallways. Rooms that appeared abandoned or forgotten, rooms with portraits of people and places he’d never seen. There’d been a room with mirrors too, that stretched up the walls and high to the ceiling and had made Jack feel like he was standing in the eye of a giant insect.

            Jack hadn’t explored in a very long time, however. Pitch had started changing the tunnels around after the Incident of ’68, keeping only the library and main rooms stationary in their positions from the center room of hanging cages. He’d missed this.

            Jack and the Guardians took a large open elevator up from the workshop floor, from where Jack was then led to a room containing a huge globe, which spun slowly on its axis. He scanned it with his eyes, wondering at its size and the many lights that shone gently from giant green landmasses and the words scrawled along the many-shaded blue panels of various sizes that formed the oceans. It reminded him of Pitch’s globe, but the differences were obvious. Pitch’s globe was wrought metal and cold to the touch, whereas this globe looked like it might be warm if he touched it.

            Of course, Jack considered, this globe contained only white lights. Pitch’s globe had those as well, but there were also black lights—the lights of those who believed in the Bogeyman.

            Toothiana, obviously mistaking Jack’s staring for lack of understanding, explained, “Each of those lights is a child who believes in us; in the Guardians.”

            Jack’s gaze slid to the side to glance at her from the corner of his eye, then went back to the globe. Belief…he’d never given it much thought, never considered it. Sometimes he wondered what it would feel like, to be believed in. Would it have made any difference in his life up to now, if he’d had the belief of someone?

            For a moment he remembered swirling winds and raging snow, and thought maybe it would have.

            Ignorant of the eyes of the Guardians that watched him closely, he approached the globe until he stood before the control panel. Reaching up, he placed his palm over Australia as it passed, exhaling gently when it proved him right—the globe _was_ warm to the touch.

            He didn’t realize he was smiling until one of the small tooth fairies was hovering in front of his face, mismatched eyes half-lidded as she cooed at his teeth. Jack looked at her tiny fluttering wings, and lurched back violently.

            “What’s the matter, afraid of tooth fairies?” Bunnymund asked, his tone vaguely mocking.

            “It’s not that,” Jack rebutted, but he did not explain. He turned around to face the Guardians, and only then noticed that they had been speaking behind his back, most likely about him. It was North that addressed him first.

            “Jack, about those questions,” he began.

            “Yes?” Jack set the butt of his staff firmly on the ground, the carvings along its length familiar but strange against his palm.

            “Sandy informs us that this Blood Rite, it is serious magic, yes?”

            “It is.”

            “And you used it against Pitch Black, but you are his Consort…” North’s jolly face was set with seriousness. “Why? What was dangerous for you?”

            A list that he’d long since burned to the back of his mind fought to access his throat, but he swallowed the words back like thick venom. They were not words to be shared with strangers. For all Jack knew he had simply traded for the lesser of two evils; at least Bunnymund seemed aware of how disgusting he was. There was no need for him to nourish their distaste for him by revealing his own brokenness.

            “Pitch has made me feel…uneasy, of late. I was concerned, and decided we needed some time apart.” The lie was obvious, and Jack knew that he had fooled no one with his words.

            North stared him down, and Jack stared back, unrelenting. North sighed through his nose, and nodded. “I see. Well, you will have your time apart. The Blood Rite will last a year before it fades, and you can go back to Pitch. If that is what you want?”

            Jack tilted his head to the side, his hair brushing into his eyes, and gave a plastic smile. “Of course. I’m his Consort.”

            Pitch would never let him get away. After his year of respite, of _freedom_ , Pitch would surely come for him. And then Jack would be punished. Thoughts of the Room chilled his blood, but in comparison to what Pitch _could_ do to him for this rebellion, the Room could almost be pleasant. For all Jack knew, Pitch might even kill him.

            Jack didn’t spare a second to wonder why that thought seemed to be the more appealing option.

            There would be no escape for Jack Frost after this. No sneaking out, no plans, no help. Jack knew what people saw him as, the rumors that might as well have been truth. After this year was over he’d be trapped once more—because who would pity, let alone believe, the Consort of the Nightmare King enough to give him aid he wasn’t even sure he deserved?

            “Of course,” North repeated his words a little disbelievingly. “In that case, we should decide who you are staying with, eh?”

            “We could switch off?” Toothiana suggested. “Each take him for a month? So that we can switch off and he won’t be stuck in one place for too long, and we’d each get him three times in the year.”

            “That sounds good.” North stroked his beard thoughtfully. “What do you think, Jack?”

            Jack blinked, surprised that his opinion was being sought, and slowly nodded. “I don’t mind.”

            North nodded. “This month has just started, and Easter is in a few weeks, so Bunny shouldn’t go first, he will be too busy. Perhaps you, Tooth?”

            Toothiana flicked her gaze from Jack to her fairies, of which a few hovered around her shoulders. The one Jack had pulled away from so violently hovered apart from the group, still near the globe, and watched the frost spirit with obvious concern and some hurt. Tooth bit her lip. “Maybe not me just yet. Jack doesn’t seem that comfortable with my fairies right now.”

            “True.” North tapped his chest. “Then it is me, or Sandy.”

            The Sandman raised his hand, waving it enthusiastically.

            “You wish to go first, Sandy?” North confirmed.

            Sandy nodded, and then smiled at Jack. Jack thinly grinned back.

            North clapped his hands. “Alright! I shall take him after Sandy. That leaves Tooth and Bunny.”

            Tooth raised her hand a bit. “He can come to me after you,” Tooth offered.

            “Wonderful! So it shall be Sandy, me, Tooth, and then Bunny. How does that sound?”

            “Sounds good to me,” Tooth said.

            Sandy nodded, a thumbs-up forming in sand above his head.

            “Good.” North looked to Bunny. “And you?”

            Bunny, who had been leaning against the railing that overlooked the workshop floor with his arms crossed, watching the proceedings grimly throughout the conversation, eased himself up until he was standing straight. He approached the group with measured steps.

            “That’s fine with me,” he said, voice low and tinged with bitterness, “on one condition.”

            “What is that?” North asked warily, put on alert by his comrade’s tone and posture.

            “I don’t want _him_ ,” Bunny pointed at Jack, “near _any_ children.”

            “What?” Jack couldn’t stop the outburst in the wake of his sudden disappointment. A tiny bit of him had been looking forward to the possibility of seeing the kids, of maybe even playing with them a bit for the first time if he could work up the nerve. Having that potential dashed so quickly loosened his tongue for questioning. “Why?”

            Bunny looked at him, and his eyes were so cold and blank Jack nearly flinched. He stalked forward until he stood just feet away from Jack, his ears pulled back aggressively. “Because you don’t deserve to be around them. Not after the Blizzard of ’68.”

            Something in Jack chilled, icy numbness spreading through his chest and making his tongue feel thick and clumsy in his mouth. “You…,” he mumbled heavily, “you know about that.”

            “I do,” Bunny whispered, each word like a cut of barbed wire digging into Jack’s chest. He tapped the ground with his foot twice, and a hole opened on the floor to his right. “And I don’t trust murderers.”

            Bunny jumped into the hole, and it closed swiftly behind him, leaving a single aster to bloom from the floorboards.

            In the tense atmosphere Bunny had left behind, Jack stared at the flower, and remained silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Also, if anyone cares to look, I'm linking a glorious fanart made for my story Tiny Little Treasures on my profile, so go check it out! DBJonah from FFN is amazing, and I am so grateful for the picture.


	5. Listen, listen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so happy at the warm welcome! I am home for summer, and while I'm posting a couple hours later than I'd like, I do have the chapter I promised! Expect the next one in a week! Regular updates are back, darlings!  
> Sorry for any errors; I'll go back and re-read later. It's a bit of a longer chapter than usual this time--sorry to those who like the shorter chapters.

*          *          *          *          *

 

A moment’s insight is sometimes worth a life’s experience.

—Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., _The Professor and the Breakfast Table,_ 1860

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Past:**

            “You seem bored, Jack.”

            Jack rocked the hanging cage back and forth, sitting in the cage’s open door. His legs dangled over the edge, and he kicked his feet forward and back, extending and pulling in, setting the cage to a gentle swing. Just below him, low enough for him to drop down with minimal jarring, but high enough that he’d had to jump to reach the cage, was a high platform with Pitch's globe. A walkway branched off from the platform to the far wall, where it connected with a dark tunnel, leading further into their home. On the platform itself was Pitch, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked up at Jack with a quirked brow.

            Jack, hands clutching the bars on either side of himself, shrugged. “There’s not much to do. I don’t feel like exploring or reading today, and I can’t go outside…” Jack cut himself off when he saw the look on Pitch’s face, sensing the reprimand that would come if he didn’t. “Not-not that I _mind_ , I just…can’t think of anything.”

            “Ah,” Pitch hummed. He turned to his globe, focusing on the lights that clustered the landmasses. There had been new lights appearing lately; black lights that sometimes shared space with the white lights and other times glowed independently. Pitch had been the most excited Jack had ever seen him when the first had appeared, and their growing numbers had put the Nightmare King in a decidedly good mood for the past few weeks.

            Jack stared at Pitch’s back for a few moments, leaning his head against the bars on his right. A thought that had been persisting over the past year niggled at his mind. Pitch had been his protector for decades now, but how much did Jack know about him? They’d read books together, Pitch had answered his questions about the outside and its dangers, but despite these conversations, Jack realized he didn’t know much about _Pitch_ himself.

            Curious, Jack opened his mouth and blurted the first question to come to mind. “Pitch, what’s your favorite season?”

            Pitch peeked at him over his shoulder, obviously bemused. “Winter. Why the sudden interest?”

            Jack gave a half-hearted shrug. “No reason, just wondering. Winter’s mine too, for obvious reasons. Why do you like it?”

            “Because people fear it,” Pitch answered, circling to the opposite side of the globe, scanning over the continents on that side.

            “Oh,” Jack said quietly. “That’s…sad.”

           “Hardly.” Pitch squinted, leaning in slightly as he observed a spot on Russia a bit closer. “I am the Bogeyman, Jackson. I need fear, which is why I am the best choice for protecting you—you _are_ a force for winter, and they would fear you—hate you.” Pitch looked up just long enough to catch Jack’s eye, his lips thinning into a knowing smile. “But not me; I am not afraid of you.”

            They were words he’d heard before, many, many times, but for some reason instead of the usual comfort and trust they’d always brought, something about the entire conversation felt _off_ to Jack.

            “Now, was there a point to this conversation, Jack?” Pitch seemed to dismiss him as he turned his attention back to the globe.

            “No,” Jack whispered, strangely subdued, the creeping sense of _wrong_ melting across his shoulders and squirming under the skin on the back of his hands until he shivered. “I was just curious.”

            “I see.” They were both silent for several minutes, Pitch making note over places around the globe, occasionally reaching out to tap a spot with his finger contemplatively. Eventually Pitch demanded, “What do you wish to do?”

            Jack lurched in surprise at the sudden question, setting the cage that had long since quit swinging back into a gentle sway. “Huh?”

            “To _do_ , Jackson; is there something you wish to _do?_ ” he repeated. “Drawing? Calligraphy? Jewelry making? What can I bring you that will cease your boredom, so that I may have some peace while I work?”

            Jack shrunk himself in his space, curling his shoulders in guiltily. “Sorry. I didn’t know I was disturbing you—”

            “Jack,” Pitch interrupted, “just answer the question.”

            “Um.” Jack drummed his fingers on the bars. Jack didn’t think he’d be much good at drawing or calligraphy, and while jewelry making sounded interesting, it lacked something. He thought for a moment, and suddenly an idea occurred to him that his fingers itched to try.

            “Carving,” Jack said lowly, then again, more confidently. “Carving. I want to try carving.”

            Pitch paused, tilting his head to skim Jack from the corner of his eyes. The set of his mouth showed that he wasn’t entirely thrilled with the idea, but in the end he nodded. “Then I will get you the things you need.”

            Jack’s mouth curved up, gentle and warm. “Thank you,” he said gratefully.

            Pitch didn’t respond.

           

*          *          *          *          *

 

            A week later Jack had nearly forgotten his request, and was surprised when Pitch presented him with a black-handled knife, the short blade at the top sharp and shiny. He also gave him a sack of small hardwood blocks Jack had trouble identifying, each about six inches by four inches by four inches in dimension. They were a light brown in color, and Jack found the color appealing for some reason.

            Pitch had swept Jack’s hair behind his ear after giving it to him, his thumb stroking the top of Jack’s cheek. Pitch had been doing things like that a lot in the past year or two, showing Jack his appreciation more and more with physical touches and lingering contact. It wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, was sometimes even almost pleasant, but it did make something in Jack’s stomach squirm slightly.

            Jack wasn’t about to give the gift back, however, and so he had thanked Pitch and accepted the touches that felt out-of-place. So long as he got to satisfy the burning itch that had taken up residence in his fingers since taking hold of the knife it didn’t bother him for now.

            Jack then sequestered himself away in one of the rooms Jack was sure Pitch must have forgotten existed, as bare as it was with nothing but cobwebs and dust for company. Jack had settled down in the middle of the floor, grateful for the light of the many extra sconces and oil lamps he’d brought with him, and began carving. The first few attempts were paltry, but not entirely worthless. He started with shapes, mostly, and on one block made a series of twisting swirls, whorls and gouges, a patchwork of designs on the wood that reminded him of the staff he’d long since handed over to Pitch. The motions felt familiar to his hands, and as he continued he found himself recalling little lessons he didn’t remember ever learning. ( _This was how he rounded the wood; it was better to go with the grain when possible than across it so the carving will last; the knife he had would be good for paring rather than sawing._ )

            In what seemed to be no time at all, Jack was carving like it was something he had been born knowing how to do, and he wondered if maybe he had.

            Half a year since he’d begun carving, Jack rolled a block of wood back and forth between his palms, contemplating what to make. Thoughts of puzzle boxes were contemplated, then dismissed by his tired mind. He’d had a particularly grueling nightmare the previous evening, and he couldn’t find it in himself to focus on designing and figuring out the tricks required for a puzzle box.

            Sighing, Jack set the wood down for a moment and scrubbed his face with his left hand. The voice in his dream had been so _loud_ last night. The more he heard it the more desperate he became about it. He had come to the conclusion that it was a female voice, young and achingly familiar.

            _But who was she?_ How did she know Jack? Why did he dream of her? Was she even real? What did she look like?

            Jack paused over the last question. What…did she look like?

            Hand still on his face, he lowered it until his fingers were draped over his lips and nose, glancing sideways down at the wooden block. He squinted his eyes, then removed his hand to pick it up. He stared at the wood, and as he did so an idea seemed to stamp into his mind’s eye and imprint itself upon the block. In his head, the question reformed. What would she look like? The longer he mulled on it, the more he felt he might know.

            Carefully, he began cutting into the wood. She’d have a round face, he decided. And long hair, yes, and she’d wear a dress with her little bare feet…

            Over the course of two weeks Jack went through three blocks before he was satisfied with the result. The most difficult part had been her face. As much as he could summon to mind an image of her clothes, her hair, her arms and legs...he couldn’t picture what her facial features would look like. He had an _impression_ of kindness, of pretty eyes and lips suited to smiles, but he could not force them into images. When he tried it didn’t look right, and he tossed the blocks away in frustration. Now, with the rest of the figurine done, he decided to leave her face blank. Maybe someday he’d be able to fix it, but for right then, it would do.

            Jack cradled the figurine in his palm, blowing away shavings from his cuts and running his finger over the carved hair to check its smoothness. He stared down into the blank face, and a melancholy ache took up in his sternum.

            “Who are you?” he whispered, and silence was his answer.

*          *          *          *          *

 

**Present:**

           

            Jack had never slept in a bed like this.

            For that matter, Jack was sure he’d never been in a _room_ like this.

            After making their decision, Jack had immediately handed off his staff to his new guardian. Sandy had been shocked at first, but at Jack’s insistence had taken it. Jack didn’t feel comfortable with the item yet; was unsure if he would _ever_ be comfortable with it. As it was, he barely knew how to use it anyway, and it was better off in another’s harmless hands than his inexperienced, potentially dangerous ones. After that had been settled, they’d left for Sandy’s home.

            The Sandman lived in a floating sand castle in the sky that constantly moved, never staying in one place for long. It was a lovely place of shining gold sand, radiant in ways he’d never thought to imagine. The island itself had waterfalls and oases, and when he and the Sandman had arrived Jack had spotted _mermaids_ , of all things, in the waters as they passed overhead on their way to the castle.

            Sandy had left him alone in what Jack assumed was to be his room, assuming (correctly) that Jack would want some time alone. Jack was standing at the foot of the bed, observing the room. The bed itself was located opposite the door, the head pushed against the middle of the wall. On the wall to his right translucent curtains were pulled to either side of a tall, wide window that curved at the top, the bottom sill at about the same height as Jack’s waist. A desk was placed against the left wall, a chest of drawers beside it, and in the very center of the room a large, round white rug was draped across the floor. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the entire place was made from sand. The walls glistened with it; each piece of furniture had a permanent dusting, like the sand had been mixed in with the paints or sealant. It was a room that felt like it should glow. As it was, there was enough ambient light from the bright glow of dream sand outside streaming through the window to keep the room lit in a constant state of twilight.

            But as magnificent as the room was, the bed was the piece that threw him for a loop. It was big, at least big enough for three people, four if they squeezed in. Not that the size was strange to him; his and Pitch’s bed was only a little smaller, and even before he’d been sharing a room with Pitch his bed had been of a decent size.

            That, however, was where the similarities between them ended. This bed was draped with a thick, plush blanket the color of burnished gold. Matching pillows of various sizes, from an armful to the size of Jack, adorned the head of the bed in a puffy pile of cloth and tassels. A sturdy headboard stained dark brown finished it off.

            Jack hesitantly climbed on the bed, keeping his dark cloak drawn close for comfort. His fingers dipped into the plush blanket as he crawled forward. The callouses on the bottom his feet scraped against the cloth. He eventually tucked himself beneath the blanket and sank his head into a medium-sized pillow. He blinked, and curled his fingers in his cloak.

            It was strange, he decided. The bed Jack was used to was all dark, cool sheets, and silk blankets; nothing like the warm, plush, bright bed he was in now. It wasn’t a bad strange, it was just… _strange_.

            He lay on his left side, staring out the window. He wondered if Rime had hidden his treasures like Jack had asked. If he was honest, there was a part of himself that hadn’t believed the Blood Rite would work when he’d handed the small bag off for Rime to hide away, so that he would be able to retrieve it when he was free. That day, it had felt like he was handing them over permanently.

            Jack curled his legs up. He’d have to make plans to retrieve them. He wanted his treasures back.

            Closing his eyes, Jack felt his shoulders relax, the muscles going lax as the tightly wound stress of the previous hours drained from his body. In this room, in this bed, where he knew undoubtedly that he was _safe_ from Pitch, the _relief_ came swift and strong. He tightened his lips against trembling. His throat felt thick with his breaths, and he turned his face into the pillow to hide the wetness in his eyes. He hadn’t cried in decades, had been certain he’d turned all his tears into bitterness for the boy in the mirror long ago.

            He didn’t cry for long. Five, maybe six tears slipped from his eyes to dampen the pillow, and then stopped. His mouth turned into a wobbly smile, and he snuggled down for sleep.

            It was strange, he thought. Strange, and different, and not at all what he was used to. But Jack had a feeling he wouldn’t mind getting used to plush beds and rooms with windows.

*          *          *          *          *

 

            For the first two weeks, Sandy worked from his castle. It required more effort to move the castle to the needed locations rather than flying there himself, but in light of his guest, he felt the extra effort was worth it. He left Jack mostly alone, allowing the winter spirit to explore to his heart’s content, only popping by for a quick greeting and to have small meals. It had been fun to peek over the edge of his cloud atop the castle, where he worked, and seek out Jack’s form moving around the island.

            He seemed fascinated by the mermaids, Sandy noticed. Too nervous, or too shy, to approach them, however. Jack would climb upon the high rocks overlooking the oases and watch them swim for hours, unmoving. Which was a little odd to Sandy; even if he didn’t know the boy well at all, stillness was a concept that, for some reason, felt wrong when applied to Jack.

            At the beginning of the third week Sandy proposed Jack leave the castle and go spread dreams with him. Jack had, hesitantly, agreed. It had gone well, in Sandy’s opinion. Jack had stayed put on the cloud of dream sand with Sandy the entire time, but he’d been mesmerized while watching, even if he’d retained that stillness Sandy found so wrong.

            At this time, the beginning of the fourth week, Jack had little more than a full week left with Sandy before he would switch to North for a month. Sandy was pleased with the progress he felt he’d made with his guest. Jack, Sandy realized, constantly had the look of a hunted thing when he thought someone was watching. He’d begun to relax a little around Sandy, the alertness in his eyes calming to something a little more peaceful, and a little less guarded.

            That night they were floating above a small suburb in California. Dream sand trickled from the cloud in lazy golden tendrils, seeking out the children they would attend to. Sandy felt when dreams separated out from the whole of the tendrils and became individual dreams, like tiny, gentle fingers tugging on a shirt hem. Sandy took the moment to glance at Jack, and smiled when he noticed the boy was staring at a nearby rope of sand with tentative curiosity.

            Sandy pat Jack’s arm to get his attention, and though he didn’t jerk, Jack stiffened, his eyes sharpening as he looked at Sandy from the corner of his eye. Sandy removed his hand immediately, soothingly holding his hands up, palm out.

            Jack calmed. He glanced down in what Sandy guessed was self-reprimand, and then gave Sandy his attention. “Yes? What is it?”

            Sandy gestured at the tendril, sand forming above his head to mime the action of touching it.

            “You’re…alright with that?” Jack asked slowly, but there was a hint of excitement in his voice.

            Sandy nodded. He was also curious. What sort of dreams did Jack Frost have?

            Jack exhaled in a long breath, and it took him several moments to even begin reaching out for the sand. As Sandy watched (was that trembling he saw?), Jack’s hand brushed the sand. A fraction of it splintered off, swirling around Jack’s fingers, and formed…nothing.

            “Ah,” Jack murmured, excitement faded and replaced with something flat and cold, “I should have expected that.”

            Sandy stared at the sand in shock. No image? But surely there had to be _something_ Jack dreamed about; surely he had _dreams_ his sand could draw off of? Something he wanted, or desired, or thought about?

            Jack’s jaw firmed, his eyes blank. He blew the sand from his palm, the pathetic, half-formed attempts at shapes disintegrating away. Jack set his palms in his lap, and stared down at them for a very long time. If Sandy had been able to see into Jack’s mind then, he would have heard the litany of abuses Jack hurled at himself. ( _How messed up could he be? Pathetic, disgusting, he couldn’t even dream properly. Could people look and see that there was something wrong with him?_ )

            “I’m going to take a nap, Sandman,” Jack said finally. He lay on his side, pulling his cloak in around himself and tucking his knees up so that only his head wasn’t hidden by the cloth. “Wake me when we get back to the island, please.”

            Sandy watched Jack drift off into slumber, surprised at how quickly the boy was able to fall asleep, but also with a feeling of upset churning in his stomach. Something wasn’t _right_ , and it bothered him. Giving Jack one last look of worry, he turned back to his work.

            He had worked for only a few minutes when the squirming began. Blinking, Sandy turned, cocking his head curiously. He looked at Jack, and was taken aback by the expression on the sleeping boy’s face. Jack’s brows furrowed deep, his entire body stiff with taught muscles. His lips were thinned and his jaw clamped tight as he ground his teeth.

            Sandy made a soundless gasp, and hopped over to Jack’s side. Jack made no noises in his sleep, but was obviously distressed. Was…was he having a nightmare? Quickly, Sandy summoned a strong dose of dream sand and sprinkled it over Jack. It took a long minute, during which Sandy feared his sand somehow wasn’t working, before Jack calmed. The sand danced around his head, formless, a peaceful sleep without the customary dreams his sand was supposed to bring.

            Sandy frowned. How could Jack have had a nightmare when he was here, of all places? Even without the directed dose, being around so much dream sand should have had a peaceful effect on his dreams anyway. As he pondered, Sandy’s eyes caught on something that sparkled darkly in the lining of Jack’s cloak. He reached out, and stroked his pudgy finger along the seam of the hood.

            When he pulled back, a few tiny grains of black sand stuck to his skin.

            Nightmare sand. Sandy knew that Pitch had been cultivating and changing Sandy’s dream sand into the stuff until he’d gained the ability from his growing power to form it on his own nearly half a century ago, and the discovery had made the normally cheery Guardian nearly livid with rage. Taking a closer look at Jack’s cloak, Sandy noted that the sand clung to the inside of the fabric, and there were even spots of it in Jack’s hair.

            Horrified, Sandy watched Jack sleep. As much sand as there was, had Jack been having nightmares _every night?_ Why hadn’t he said anything? Didn’t he know he could have just asked for help? Didn’t he know he didn’t have to have nightmares—?

            Sandy’s eyes shot to formless dream sand drifting above Jack’s head.

            …except, maybe he _didn’t._

Maybe, Sandy realized, Jack Frost didn’t know how to dream at all.

            The thought trickled like poison under his skin, unpleasant and sickening. How long had it been since Jack had had a good dream? He’d been so quiet in the throes of his nightmare. Was it possible he’d gotten so used to having nightmares that he’d, horribly enough, gotten used to them, and forgotten what it was like to have a good dream?

            Sandy rubbed his fingers thoughtfully. Well, first things first, so long as Jack kept wearing that cloak, he’d continue to have nightmares when he fell asleep. The sand in his hair would come out easily enough but the cloak had too much stuck in the lining and seams to be removed without difficulty. For now Sandy would dose Jack with sand whenever he fell asleep to keep the nightmares at bay, and when he moved on in little more than a week Sandy would mention it to North. The jolly man would surely have some ideas of how to get the boy to rid himself of the cloak.

            Sandy worked on autopilot for the rest of the night. He continued to watch Jack sleep, searching for answers to his many questions in the lines of his face.

            ( _“To the Guardians of Childhood, I beseech a Blood Rite of Protection.”_ )

            What exactly, Sandy wondered solemnly, had Pitch Black been doing to this boy?


	6. Like a fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm a day late, I was going to just spend a day at my dad's but I'm spending the weekend instead, and this is the only time I was able to get internet. (We're visiting my aunt for a bit.) Here's the chapter--it's...still longer than I was expecting. Huh. I'll read over for errors later, so sorry if there are any glaring ones!

*          *          *          *          *

 

“Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery.”

― J.K. Rowling, _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ , 2000

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Past:**

            Jack rolled his shoulders, fighting the stiffness that had taken up in his muscles. His eyes were lined with dark shadows, and he knew if he looked in a mirror his skin would be paler than usual and carry a clammy sheen. Jack sat against the wall in the hallway just under the hole in the ground that served as the doorway into their home. Sunlight streamed down in a patch a few feet from Jack, and he was content to watch the dust dance in the beams. He didn’t even consider going outside, especially not after the previous night.

            He and Pitch had gotten in a fight. Jack had argued that Pitch was being unfair, that he was keeping Jack from making friends.

            “Friends?” Pitch had sneered. “I’ve told you before, Jackson, _I_ am the only person you need. Are you undermining that? Are you saying I don’t know what I’m doing by keeping you here?”

            “That’s _not_ it,” Jack pleaded. “I just think that, maybe, if I _tried_ —”

            “Tried?” Pitch’s arms crossed behind his back severely as he circled Jack. “They would _hate you_ , Jackson. I’ve told you that dozens of times. You are dangerous to them.”

            “You’re worrying too much—”

            “Too much?” Pitch halted in front of him, golden eyes blazing. “I’m worrying too much? Shall I show you the true extent of my worry, Jackson?” His eyes lidded, his voice soft and hissing. “Shall I show you the extent of my _fear_?”

            Jack paled. “No, Pitch, please, really, I don’t…”

            “No, Jackson.” Pitch reached out, cupping the back of Jack’s neck. “I think you’ve forgotten. I think you need a reminder.”

            And then Jack had been confined to the Room. He wasn’t sure how long he’d crawled on all fours, his skin feeling like it wanted to peel back and expose muscle and bone like maybe if it did he wouldn’t feel like there was something moving behind his eyeballs in the dark. When he’d finally been allowed to leave, he’d squirmed into Pitch’s arms and sobbed until he’d fallen asleep. After shaking the usual nightmare upon waking he’d cleaned himself of the dried tears and snot that caked his face in a thick mess.

            Jack stretched, sighing as his spine popped. No, he wouldn’t contemplate sneaking out. He had no desire to revisit the Room again.

            He was on the verge of dipping into a doze when a sound of animals fighting came from above. Jack’s eyes shot open, and as he watched shadows danced in the shaft of light from the entrance. A distressed screech sounded, and a small bird dropped down the hole. It hit the ground, and lay still.

            Jack jerked forward, huddling around the light as he looked it over. He was relieved when it still breathed, its tiny chest moving under the plumage. He looked up, and through the hole he could see a hawk pass overhead. He guessed the hawk had attacked the smaller bird, but it seemed the little thing had passed out on impact after being knocked down the hole.

            Jack carefully turned the bird over, inspecting for injuries. It was a hummingbird, he noticed. It was small, barely three and a half inches long. In the light, the feathers at its throat were iridescent ruby, bordered on the top by velvety black. Its tail was forked and black, with an almost violet sheen in the light. The feathers of its belly were grey-white, and those on the back metallic green, with wings nearly-black. Its bill was slender, and about half an inch if he had to guess. All in all its feathers were ruffled, but otherwise it seemed the bird was relatively unharmed.

            Jack thought about putting the bird back on the surface, or leaving it there in the light. It would be alright once it woke, so long as the impact hadn’t done too much damage. But…

            It was so soft when he touched it. So small and pretty. He wanted to take care of it, even if it was just for a little while.

            He cupped the hummingbird in his hands, and as he did so it stirred to wakefulness. It still seemed dazed, though, and did little more than flap its wings weakly. He stood up, and carried the bird deeper into the home of the Bogeyman.

            “Hey there little bird,” he whispered, “you okay?” He smiled. “What’s your name?”

           

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            “Hop?” Jack closed his bedroom door behind him, scanning the room for the hummingbird he’d been keeping within. It fluttered up from the bed and circled his head with swift wing flaps that moved too fast for him to see clearly.

            Jack held out his hand, and the hummingbird settled along the length of his finger. He sat on his bed, and stroked down its back. He glanced over to the spot on the floor where he’d set food out for Hop, and was pleased to see it all gone.

            “You eat a lot,” he commented. “Must be to power those wings of yours, huh?”

            Hop trot along the length of Jack’s finger with his itty feet. Jack’s smile and eyes were soft with affection. “I’ll get you more soon, okay? If I can, I’ll get you a few spiders. You seem to like those.”

            Hop took off and began to fly around the room, Jack watching the tiny body flit in the corners of the ceiling. He lay on his back, hands crossed over his stomach. There was a part of him that knew he should return Hop to the outside soon, it had already been two weeks, but the warmth in his chest surged, asking for one more day, _please, just one more day…_

            Jack instinctively knew that Pitch would never approve of him keeping Hop. That knowledge squirmed uncomfortably in his gut. It bothered him that he was troubled by Pitch; shouldn’t he have faith in his protector? In his only friend? But something stayed his tongue whenever he thought to bring it up.

            Hop landed on the pillow by Jack’s head, and he turned his face slightly to watch. The bird scratched beneath his wing with his beak, and Jack chuckled at finding it cute. It was strange how comfortable Hop was with him, and wondered if it was a side-effect of being a spirit of nature. He rolled onto his side, curling his legs up so his knees were level with his abdomen.

            Hop extended his neck and bumped the top of his head against Jack’s forehead. Jack exhaled quietly. “Thank you,” he breathed.

            Just one more day couldn’t hurt.

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Jack searched his room frantically. “Hop?” he called. “Hop?”

            He couldn’t figure out where the hummingbird had gone. Jack always left his door closed. Hop couldn’t possibly have gotten out. Jack was on his knees, checking under the bed, when the door opened.

            “Jack?” Pitch’s voice was calm. “Are you looking for something?”

            Jack jolted, and stood, turning to face Pitch. “No, I was just—” His words cut off as he caught sight of Pitch’s hand. Suddenly his voice felt thick in his throat. “…what are you holding?” he asked quietly.

            “Hm? Oh.” Pitch held his hand palm up. “It seems a hummingbird got in. It seems it accidentally ran into one of my nightmares.” Pitch stroked his fingers over the hummingbird’s feathers with his free hand. “Poor thing; it couldn’t take the fear, and its little heart gave out.”

            Jack remained silent, his eyes fixed the still body.

            “You see, Jack?” Pitch continued. “There are just some things that don’t go well with cold and dark as we do. Do you understand?”

            “Yes,” Jack said, the word cutting like barbs over his tongue.

            “Good.” Pitch turned away. “I expect to see you later for dinner.”

            “Okay.”

            Pitch left. Jack stayed in that same position for a solid minute, then lowered himself onto the bed. He pulled the blanket over himself, snuggled his face into his pillow, and tried not to cry.

*          *          *          *          *

 

            The next day Jack would find a tail feather that had come loose from Hop. He would spend several minutes running it over his palm and cheek, but it would prove ultimately unable to replicate the feeling of Hop’s head nuzzling against him. He’d then press it between the pages of a thin volume of poetry from the library, and hide it under his bed with his figurine. All in all, there were many things Jack Frost would do in the coming days.

            But he wouldn’t forget.

 

**Present:**

             

            Jack had slept well during his final days with the Sandman. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night, had forgotten what it was like not to have nightmares.

            He’d been nervous about staying with North, but the guest bedroom he’d been given was nice—with lots of greens and dark wood. The bed was large, too, with a king mattress and tall frame. He’d hidden his staff under it on arrival. To make it all better, the nightmares hadn’t come back after leaving the Sandman, either. He was surprised, figuring that it had just been his prolonged proximity to the dream sand that had stayed them, but didn’t mind their absence.

            The first week he was at the Pole he spent staring out at the field of white snow the Workshop overlooked. Otherwise he followed North at a distance, watching him work quietly. Every now and then North would peek at Jack, and invite him closer. Sometimes Jack would, sometimes he wouldn’t. Whenever he did, North would show him some fantastic new toy he had in development.

            “We make these sturdy!” North exclaimed, knocking the race car against the work top. “Built to last!”

            Jack inched closer, a niggling of curiosity worming across his tongue. “What for?”

            North seemed delighted Jack had asked. “We give these to younger children, who are quite rough on their toys.” He held it out to Jack, but when Jack didn’t take it, set the toy back on the table. “Well, this one is going to a little girl in France, who dreams of being a race car driver when she gets older.”

            Jack’s lip twitched. “Sounds fun.”

            The look North gave him was bright. “She is a good child.” North reached, like he wanted to place a hand on Jack’s shoulder, but at the wary look in Jack’s eyes, changed the motion into a gesture. “What is your dream, Jack? What fills you with wonder?”

            Jack fell silent, gaze dropping to the ground. “I…don’t know.” North’s smile began to drop, and Jack blurted, “But, I liked the mermaids on Sandman’s island.”

            North nodded warmly. “I see; I see.” He placed his hands on his hips decisively. “We shall have to visit the ocean at some time.”

            Jack didn’t say it, but he liked that idea.

            About halfway through Jack’s stay with North, North mentioned that Bunnymund would be coming visit. On the day the Easter Bunny arrived, Jack hid himself away in a lesser-used section of the workshop. He’d noticed that the yeti who weren’t in charge of brainstorming ideas seemed split into sections to focus on one aspect of toys at a time, and at the moment that particular section (used for the hand-carved figurines, frames, and other wooden toys), was left largely alone while the yeti were on their lunch break. Jack chose to avoid the guilt that seeing the Easter Bunny churned his stomach with there, with the intention that there might be wood scraps and tools he could use. He missed carving; the feeling of wood in his hands and the sound of wood being cut.

            Jack slipped into the room, looking around at the workbenches and wood blocks stacked against one wall. Biting his lip, Jack approached the bench at the back, picking up a smaller block on his way. Sitting, he looked over the tools splayed across the worktop, an expectant tingle taking up in the tips of his fingers and his knuckles. He picked up a carving knife, and, not knowing exactly what he’d be making yet, began whittling away, familiar calm dipping his shoulders.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            North and Bunny observed their cards with pseudo-seriousness, eyes narrowed as they contemplated their moves.

            “Hm…” North thumbed through his hand. He drew a card, and set it on the table in front of him along with several other straights and pairs. “Plays on your sevens.”

            Bunny made a noise of dissatisfaction. “It does.”

            North discarded, and the game continued. As Bunny took his turn, he asked casually, “So, how have things been with the Nightmare King’s Consort?”

            North watched Bunny play, his cards folded in his hand. He tapped them on the table. “Jack is…quiet. Sometimes, I almost forget the boy is even here.” He looked away thoughtfully, and continued, “He enjoys watching. I can tell this. But, it is like he _restrains_ himself for some reason.”

            “Hm…” Bunny finished his turn, and North began his.

          After a few turns played in silence, North said quietly, “I have been dosing him with dream sand every night.”

            Bunny’s eye shot to North’s, surprise widening them. “What? Why?”

            North explained what Sandy had told him about Jack’s cloak when Jack had first transferred to the Pole, and Sandy’s suspicions that Pitch had been dosing Jack with nightmare sand for a very, very long time. “Sandy gave me a bag of sand to use until I can get him to take off the cloak.” North pointed to a simple package wrapped in brown paper on the table. “I will offer him that after you leave. I would have done so sooner, but he was too skittish at first.”

            Bunny nodded, heavy thoughts lidding his eyes with consideration. “North,” he asked slowly, “about how long ago was it that Pitch started to rise in power?”

            “About a century ago, that we know of.” North’s eyes sharpened. “Bunny, you aren’t thinking…?”

            “It would make sense.” Bunny stared at his cards without seeing them. “We know from Sandy that the good dreams of spirits are more potent to him; it would stand to reason that the same would be true of nightmares for Pitch.”

            Over a century of nightmares…Bunny leaned his elbows on the table. “But even as I say it, it doesn’t…”

            “Sound like something you would do to your consort?” North finished. “It doesn’t.”

            Silence hovered following those damning words, until North discarded his final card. “I am out.”

            Bunny blinked, drawing out of his thoughts to scan the field of cards. “Cheat,” he declared without vitrol. “This is why I don’t like playing rummy with you.”

            They tallied their final points, North declaring himself winner yet again, to which there was much eye-rolling from Bunny. As he was leaving for the Warren, North stopped him. “Bunny.”

            Bunny paused, with his foot raised. “Yeah, North?”

            “Remember what we talked about today. I am thinking there is more here than we know.”

            Bunny blinked questioningly. “What are you suggesting, North?”

            “Whatever their relationship is,” North said slowly, “I do not think it is a healthy one.”

            The two stared at each other. Bunny pursed his lips, and gave a terse nod before tapping his foot, and disappearing down a tunnel.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Jack glanced up as a shadow blocked his light. A yeti stared down at him with a calm face.

            “Oh!” Jack gripped the block and knife tighter in surprise. “Sorry. Are you,” he glanced at the name engraved on the knife, “Phil?”

            The yeti nodded, watching him curiously.

            “I’m sorry. I’ll leave.” Jack started to stand, but the yeti waved him back down. Phil retrieved a block from the stack against the wall. He sat on the bench, a few feet from Jack, and picked up one of his other knives. He began to carve himself. Jack watched him for a bit, uncertain if he should leave anyway, until Phil turned his head to look at him slightly. The yeti nodded at the half-formed spinning top Jack was making, raising an expectant brow.

            Jack bit his lip, and went back to work. He glanced at Phil every few moments, curious that he was the only one who had come in so early, when Jack knew the rest of the yeti had at least another half an hour for lunch. As they worked, Jack awed that this was probably the most comfortable he’d felt since arriving at the Pole. Phil was a steady, warm presence at his side as they worked, and Jack’s desire to continue this contact was as sudden as it was strong.

            “Um,” he said quietly, and Phil turned his head toward Jack. Jack was all at once aware of how much bigger the yeti were than him, yet didn’t feel intimidated. “Is it alright if I come back here again tomorrow?”

            Phil observed him intently, his eyes scanning over Jack’s face. Jack wasn’t sure what Phil was looking for, but whatever he found made him nod. Nervousness Jack hadn’t been aware of lifted, and he looked down to hide a tiny turn of lips.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Jack left soon after so Phil could return to his work, his spirits strangely lifted. He was approaching his room when he spotted North coming from the opposite way, a brown paper package in hand.

            “Jack!” he called, smiling as they both met in front of Jack’s door. “I was just coming to see you.”

            “You were?” Jack opened the door and they both entered. He sat on the bed, and became blank when North handed the package to him. “What is this?”

            “It is a gift.” North’s eyes twinkled. “Go on, open it!”

            A gift? Jack wasn’t used to gifts. Only Pitch had ever given him such things before, the last one being the very cloak Jack wore. Hesitantly, he pulled open the paper. It crinkled as he removed it, and then Jack found himself holding an item of clothing he’d only seen through the clear lens of one of his treasures. “What’s this?”

            “A hooded sweater,” North said proudly. “Or ‘hoodie,’ as they are calling it. It has a big pocket on the front as well. You can wear this, and put away that heavy cloak. It must be tiring to wear it all the time.”

            The hoodie was a lovely blue, Jack thought, and the material warm. He bit the inside of his lip, and looked away.

            “You don’t have to wear it now, if you are uncomfortable,” North added, seeing Jack’s face. “But if you feel like it, be free to do so.”

            Jack nodded, relieved at North’s understanding. “Thank you.”

            “It is nothing, Jack.” North was pleased Jack had even accepted it. “Do what feels right to you.”

            Jack held the hoodie a bit tighter. “I will.”

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            The hoodie sat in Jack’s room for another week before he decided to try it. He removed the cloak slowly, and Jack felt like it should have been harder to do. It should have clung to his shoulders more, should have been like taking away a piece of himself. He’d worn it for so long, used it to keep himself hidden, it should have felt _wrong_ to take it off.

            But it hadn’t. And that was a little frightening to Jack.

            In his white shirt and brown trousers, Jack caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the vanity across the room. Pale, clear skin and bright blue eyes. The shadows under those eyes were less than he last remembered. His limbs were long, his neck slender.

            ( _“You’re beautiful,” Pitch whispered against the back of his neck._ )

            Jack’s fingers twitched. It didn’t matter what his appearance was like, he thought.

            The boy in the mirror still looked dead to him, anyway.

            Jack picked up the hoodie and slipped it over his head. It fit well, he decided. And while it didn’t hide as much as the cloak had, it would do. He slid his hands in the pocket on the front, and the action felt natural, comfortable. In his content, frost crawled across his shoulders and fit the material like it was meant to be there.

            It would do.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            The day before Jack was going to leave for Tooth Palace, he sat at Phil’s workbench with the yeti while the others were at lunch again. He wasn’t working on anything that day, having finished the spinning top he’d been making and not wanting to start another project just before he would have to leave. He leaned on the worktop while Phil carved something his massive hands kept Jack from catching more than tiny glimpses of.

            “Is it…strange,” Jack began, breaking their customary silence, “if I think North is like a grandfather?”

            Phil said something in Yettish that Jack took to be comforting, and briefly pat Jack on the arm. It said something that Jack didn’t flinch away.

            “I’ve never had a grandfather,” Jack admitted. “At least, not that I remember. It’s…nice.”

            Phil gave Jack a look that was filled with calm fondness, and it seemed to say, “That’s a good thing.”

            Jack smiled, and hid it by drawing his hood up. Phil made a noise and gently tugged the hood back down, and gave a gentle tug to the hair by Jack’s ear. Jack allowed the touch, but pulled away after only a few seconds.

            Phil blew shavings from the thing in his hand, and rolled it in his palms. Jack cocked his head. “What is that?”

            Phil set aside his knife, and crooked his finger for Jack to hold out his hands. Jack did so, and a small wooden horse with a flowing mane and legs in mid-run was dropped into his palm. Jack parted his lips in a small ‘o.’ He looked it over, and found it lovely. He looked up at Phil, who watched him kindly. “Is this for me?” he asked hesitantly.

            Phil nodded. Jack curled his fingers around it, and drew his hands to his chest. “Thank you,” he murmured. He thought for a moment. “Phil?”

            Phil said something Jack took as inquiry.

            “Is it okay if…I mean,” the words tumbled and knocked into each other as he spoke, “I’m going to Tooth Palace tomorrow. But is it okay if I still see you? Like, if I come visit?”

            Phil nodded. Jack leaned in to press his forehead to Phil’s arm. It was the most contact he felt comfortable initiating, and he was grateful that Phil didn’t press him for more.

            They sat in mutual silence, both in their own thoughts, and Jack knew that the horse would be one of his treasures. Jack closed his eyes, and was amazed to realize how much he was going to miss Phil when he left.

            And though he didn’t say it, he felt that if there were times when North felt like a grandfather, then there were certainly times when Phil felt like a father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have only one word:  
> Phil.


	7. But it's never enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than last week's, but my usual is only 2,000 minimum, with 4,000 maximum.  
> Either way, please enjoy!  
>  **WARNING: DUBIOUS CONSENT IN THIS CHAPTER. VERY, VERY DUBIOUS, PRETTY MUCH NOT THERE. NOTHING VERY GRAPHIC, BUT I DID WARN FOR DARK THEMES.**  
>  As always, I'll glance over for errors later. :D

*          *          *          *          *

 

We only confess our little faults to persuade people that we have no large ones.

― La Rochefoucauld, _Maxims_ , 1678

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Past:**

            “Jack, why don’t you sleep with me tonight?”

            In the one hundred and forty nine years they’d known each other, Pitch had never asked him that question before.

            Jack looked across the table at him, bread roll half-way to his mouth. He set it down slowly, and bit the inside of his lip. “I…don’t know. I kind of like sleeping alone.”

            “But it will be easier for me to absorb the fear from your nightmares if we’re in the same bed,” Pitch explained, completely logical. “I would be able to grow in strength, and who knows? With you so nearby, it might not be necessary for you to have as many nightmares.”

            Jack sucked in a breath. “Really? I wouldn’t have to have bad dreams?”

            “It’s possible,” Pitch allowed. “Not certain, but possible.”

            Jack was willing to take a chance on ‘possible.’ “Alright,” he agreed.

            Pitch smiled serenely. “You won’t regret it.”

            It shouldn’t have been possible to tell a lie so sweetly.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            A week after they’d started sharing a bed, and by extension a room, Jack woke with Pitch at his back. The nightmare he’d been having had been light in comparison to others, and he almost felt peaceful. He blinked and turned his head. “Pitch?”

            “Ssh,” Pitch hushed. He wrapped his arm around Jack’s waist. “I’m just absorbing the energy. It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”

            “Your arm…”

            “Is there a problem?” Pitch asked sharply.

            Jack stiffened, and haltingly said, “No.”

            “Then go back to sleep.”

            Jack obeyed. The moment he was asleep once more, Pitch placed a hand over Jack’s eyes. “Sweet dreams, Jack,” he murmured.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

             A month after they’d started sleeping together, Jack woke, and knew something was off. It wasn’t the arm around his waist—he’d gotten used to that. It wasn’t even the nightmare he’d been having beforehand, a particularly bad one that left him feeling dazed, disoriented, and so very exhausted.

            It has hands, he realized. Hands where they shouldn’t be. Jack’s head lolled, his eyes half-lidded as he was rolled onto his back. Pitch hovered over him, running his fingers along Jack’s body. He slipped under Jack’s shirt, pushing it up to rake his nails over his skin. Jack groaned weakly.

            “Pitch,” he mumbled, trying vainly to bat his hands away. “No…”

            Pitch ignored his weak attempts, and began kissing Jack’s throat. A warmth that was good, but scary because he didn’t know what it was, trickled into his abdomen, his hips, his groin. Jack squirmed a bit, and wondered if it was because of the high amount of sand he’d been dosed with the night before that left him feeling so groggy and slack.

            Jack’s leg twitched in what was meant to be a kick when Pitch slid Jack’s pants down his legs, his fingers searching out and prying Jack open from a place Jack had never touched himself.

            “Pi-itch,” he slurred out a touch desperately. A seed of panic nestled in the corner of his mind. “Sto…no…”

            Pitch ignored him, but was very soon done with his fingers. He took them out, and replaced them with something much larger, and much more painful.

            Jack screamed, the sharp, shooting pain clearing away a bit of the exhausted fog. Tears poured from him in broken pieces. “No, it hurts,” he sobbed, the first words he’d managed to say coherently. “Stop, Pitch, please.” He pushed pathetically at Pitch’s chest.

            Pitch caught up his hands, and kissed his palms. “Ssh, it’s alright. It’s good.” Then he reached down and grabbed Jack’s flagging erection, stroking with deft fingers. “See? You like it.”

            Jack shook his head, vainly trying to pull his hips away from the intrusive pain, but if anything it made it worse. Pitch thrust firmly, and it made pain war with flagging pleasure in Jack’s body.

            When Jack came it was a mix of terrible pain and confused pleasure. Pitch was quick to follow, thrusting hard once, then a few times more, shallowly, before collapsing atop Jack. Pitch pet Jack’s wet cheeks, wiping away the hot tears.

            Jack was hardly aware when Pitch pulled out of him, something hot and burning leaking out of him. Pitch hugged him sweetly, and pressed a kiss to his hair.

            “See?” Pitch smiled. “Good.”

            Jack shivered as he fell unconscious.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Between the pain of blood and semen thick on his thighs the next morning, Jack Frost only had the energy to feel anger. He cleaned himself up, fighting the quiver of his lips as he did so, and wobbled to the library. Every step felt like knives up his legs and in his lower back, but he somehow managed to find Pitch before reaching the point of collapse.

            “Pitch!” Jack yelled, leaning on the couch across from his guardian for support.

            “Jack.” Pitch looked up from his book, and raised an eyebrow. “Should you be up so soon?”

            “Why did you do that?” Jack accused. “I asked you to stop.”

            Annoyance lidded Pitch’s eyes. “It felt good, didn’t it?”

            “Well,” Jack remembered vague pleasure interspersed with the pain, and couldn’t deny that when he’d climaxed it _had_ felt good, “yes. But—”

            “Then I don’t see what the problem is,” Pitch snapped. His words came out offended and rushed. “I made you feel good, didn’t I? Don’t you love me, Jack?”

            “I,” Jack started. Of course he cared for Pitch. Pitch was his friend, his protector and guardian. Pitch had always been there for him. But _love_ didn’t feel like the right word for that feeling, at least not in the way Pitch was obviously meaning it. The look on Pitch’s face, though; the barely veiled anger and tenseness that felt like a threat, made Jack hesitant to admit that.

            For the first time ever, Jack Frost was afraid of Pitch Black.

            It was a mixture of that fear, and a desire to avoid Pitch’s wrath and hopefully mend the argument, that made Jack say, “Of course I love you.”

            Pitch’s ire faded in an instant, and he smiled calmly. “Then there’s nothing wrong. Correct?”

            “…yes.”

            “Good.” Pitch returned to his book, ignoring Jack from that point.

            Jack stood in silence, the only sound in the room being the crackle of the near fireplace and the soft rustle of turning pages. After a minute of this, he left. He went to his carving room, unwilling to return to his, _their,_ bedroom, and sat in the middle of the floor. He picked up his knife and a block, and tried to work.

            He had to stop when his eyes became too blurred by tears to see what he was doing, and couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason why he was crying.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Six months after sex was introduced into their relationship, one hundred and fifty years since they’d met, Pitch announced that Jack was to be his Consort one evening while they ate dinner.

            Jack halted with a bread roll halfway to his mouth, and looked over the table at him. He set it down slowly. “I see.”

            “It’s best for both of us. It will be safer for you if they know how affiliated we are, and make my job easier,” Pitch explained.

            Jack nodded, and resumed eating. Strangely, the food tasted blander than it had before. Jack let the conversation shift, and vaguely wondered when a piece of him had started to feel so hollow.

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Present:**

           

            Jack decided he was coming to enjoy rooms with windows. His newest room at Tooth Palace kept to that theme, with huge floor-to-ceiling windows that contained no glass, but instead were framed by gauzy material that was almost sheer in the light. The bed was round, and set into the floor itself. Jack thought it was relaxing to lounge on the bed, and stare at the stone murals on the high ceiling. He’d chosen to bury his staff among the multitude of pillows that crowded the bed.

            He spent most days exploring the palace, looking at boxes of teeth and the smiling little faces that had lost them.

            Toothiana was a very busy person, he discovered. But she always took time out to hunt him down from his hiding places around the palace and have tea. Their discussions during that time were only five to ten minutes long, and mostly just him listening while she spoke, but that was okay. He didn’t mind it. Most days she talked about teeth, or what she did as the Tooth Fairy. Other days she told him about the Guardians, or asked him questions he wouldn’t answer.

            “North was a Cossack before Ombric took him on,” she informed. “And his beard wasn’t nearly so white, back then.”

            Jack glanced at her over the rim of his cup. “You mean, North wasn’t always Santa?”

            She blinked wide, expressive eyes at him curiously. “Of course not. We were all somebody before we were Guardians.” She took a nonchalant sip of her tea as she asked, “Who were you before you were with Pitch?”

            “I wasn’t anyone,” he answered. The look on her face showed she believed him to be avoiding the question, although Jack knew he’d answered honestly. He hadn’t been anyone before he’d met Pitch.

            Just a boy on a lake.

            Silence reigned over their conversation after that, and remained until the last dregs of tea had been sipped, and Toothiana had to return to her work.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Jack had been followed since he’d arrived at Tooth Palace. There had been some little fairies that peeked on him for curiosity’s sake, but they left quickly. This fairy, Jack suspected, was shirking her duties by following him around so much. He didn’t think Toothiana would have assigned one of them to stalk him.

            After passively allowing it for two weeks, he decided to confront the tiny being. He slipped around a corner, and rather than continue on, turned to face the way he came with a blank face. Moments later a small face poked around the edge, spotted him, and squeaked. Before she could leave, Jack called out to her.

            “Wait!”

            She halted her retreat, and one big, violet eye coming back around the corner to look at him. She twittered questioningly.

            “Why are you following me?” he asked.

            She showed herself fully now, and bobbed in the air while wringing her hands. She glanced at him, then down at the ground, and shrugged.

            Jack tried to make sense of her gestures. “You were curious?”

            She rocked her head side to side. Somewhat, then.

            “What else is it?”

            She appeared bashful, and pointed to his mouth.

            “My teeth?”

            She nodded, then shook her head. She smiled, and pointed at her own mouth.

            Jack blinked, his lips slipping into a frown. “My smile?”

            She nodded vigorously this time, and seemed saddened by the downward pull of his lips. She flew closer, reaching out as if to mold a smile from his lips herself. He jerked back before she could touch him.

            She froze in shock. As she watched him, she was stunned to realize he was _afraid_. Afraid of a tiny thing like her!

            “I’m sorry,” Jack apologized, regret bruising his tone. “I…birds make me anxious.” His eyes flicked to her wings, and away. “You remind me very much of a hummingbird.”

            She drew her hand back, face falling. Guilt stirred his chest, and he hesitantly offered, “But, if you don’t move around much, I think, my shoulder...” He gestured with his chin. “If you’re careful, I mean, you could try riding on it?”

            The fairy made an exalted sound, and flew closer. When he tensed she calmed down, but it didn’t dampen the excitement in her eyes. She perched feather-light, gripping the material of his hoodie with strong, tiny fingers.

            Jack was tense for the first few moments, adjusting to the feeling of her being so close. (Of something so breakable being close to someone like him who was only good for ruining things.) When he’d calmed enough, he took to walking down the hall with his usual explorative intentions in mind. Eventually he asked, “What’s your name?”

            She shook her head, but shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal.

            Jack frowned. It seemed a bit sad to him that she didn’t have a name, no matter how unimportant she claimed it was. Even someone like him had been given a name.

            It was with that thought in mind that he said, “Well, I’ve never seen a fairy like you,” he glanced at the mark under her eye, then pointedly looked into the distance. “So…can _I_ name you?”

            The fairy blinked wide eyes, scanning the side of his face as he very carefully avoided looking at her. Something warm softened her cheeks. She twittered, and nodded a yes.

            Hearing her confirmation, he gave a tiny, closed lipped smile that disappeared as quick as it came. He began to look contemplative. “Well, you’re all mini Toothiana’s, right?” She nodded again. “Then how about…Baby Tooth?” Frost crept across his cheeks, and he lowered his eyes in self-reprimand. “Sorry. That’s not very creative, is it? I don’t have much experience with naming, or being creative.”

            Newly named Baby Tooth shook her head, and raised a hand as though to touch his cheek, but didn’t follow through with the action. Her hand hovering in the air, she did her best to show that no, she loved it, and she really did.

           Jack glanced at her from the corner of his eye, but kept his face turned to the ground. She could see his smile, and it was like thawing ice on a lake in early spring; thin, brittle, and ready to break at a moment’s notice.

            But it was _there_ , and in that single moment that mattered more to Baby Tooth than anything. (Sometimes it surprised her that he even knew _how_ to smile.)

            “Thank you,” he murmured.

            Baby Tooth’s heart hitched in her chest, but could do no more than squeeze his shoulder as tight as she could to convey her welcome.

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Jack put off asking Toothiana if he could visit North’s Workshop for another week. Though they had been nothing but kind to him, almost too kind, too understanding, in fact, he was still hesitant to make any requests. After all, what reason did they have to grant his wishes? But with gentle encouragement from Baby Tooth (who had taken to settling on his shoulder every moment she could, even during tea with Toothiana. The Tooth Fairy had scolded her little fairy for shirking her duties when she discovered this, but Baby Tooth stubbornly refused to leave Jack’s side. There was something terribly painful about Jack Frost, Baby Tooth thought, and if staying with him meant getting in trouble after he left, that was alright. Making sure he didn’t hide himself away, that he wasn’t as lonely as his unsuitably blank winter eyes screamed at her that he was, it would be worth it.) he had finally asked.

            “Visiting North?” she asked kindly, her smile pleased.

            “Yes,” Jack explained, “but there’s someone else I promised I’d see.”

            Tooth didn’t ask any more, and the next day North himself came to pick Jack up with one of his snow globes. North greeted him warmly, appearing to barely hold himself back from a hug he knew Jack wouldn’t be comfortable with. He was surprised, he said, that Jack wanted to come visit so soon.

            He was also surprised by the little fairy that stuck to Jack’s shoulder like frost on a window, but that he did not say.

            When they got to the Workshop they talked for a few minutes, North asking casual questions, and Jack giving one word answers, until Jack excused himself. When North asked who he was visiting, Jack’s answer made his face light up like Christmas tree lights.

            “A friend,” he said slowly.

            North watched him leave with warmth in his gaze.

            Jack was hesitant to enter the wood working room with all the benches, but the smell of sawdust was familiar and comforting. With a strong nod from Baby Tooth, Jack stepped inside. As he expected, the other yeti were all on break. Also as expected, Phil was sitting at his workbench. He looked up as Jack entered.

            A look of relief and pleased fondness ruffled the hair on his face, and Phil gestured Jack over.

            “Hey Phil,” Jack greeted. He waved a hand toward his left shoulder. “This is Baby Tooth.”

            Baby Tooth cooed happily, and waved. Phil waved back, and pat an empty spot on the bench beside him.

            And Jack, feeling strangely light, took a seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I DID warn you.  
> 2\. *Fondly sighs about Baby Tooth.*  
> Next chapter is the one you all seem so eager for--Jack's first month with Bunny.  
> Oh Lord what have I gotten myself into.


	8. Just my echo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a day later than I'd like, and this chapter feels a bit..okay, to me, but I didn't want to withhold it just because my own insecurities are nipping at me.  
> WILL CHECK FOR GRAMMAR AND SPELLS LATER YE WHEN MY EYES AREN'T GONNA FALL OUT.

*          *          *          *          *

 

Let us not underrate the value of a fact; it will one day flower into a truth.

\--Henry David Thoreau, _Excursions,_ 1863

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Past:**

            “I don’t believe it.”

            Jack’s head shot up from the carving he’d been working on, the unfamiliar voice jolting him to awareness. He’d been carving in the main hall today, with the hanging cages and the platform with Pitch’s globe high overhead. He’d only felt comfortable being outside his usual carving room because Pitch was absent. He’d been leaving for weeks at a time, ‘spreading his influence.’ Pitch had informed over dinner a few days prior that the humans were in the middle of some great war, and he was using the opportunity to absorb the extra strength while he could.

            (That was how most dinners went nowadays. Pitch talked, and Jack listened. Jack rarely felt he had words to share anymore.)

            After telling Jack of the war, Pitch had left with the promise to return in a few weeks, and the usual warning to stay inside. Jack had obeyed.

            But now there was a person in their home.

            Jack jumped up, gripping his carving knife tight. “Who are you?”

            The intruding winter sprite smirked. His hair was as white as Jack’s own and spiked to vicious points that were tipped with frost. His skin was pale, wintery blue. He wore handsome gray trousers and an expensive looking blue tunic. Despite the obvious fine quality, the clothing was ripped along the hems, as though the owner didn’t care how rough he treated them. Pointed ears gleamed with silver cuffs, teardrop gems hanging from the lobes. His dark eyes settled on the carving knife, dark amusement gleaming in them.

            “Are you going to use that?” the sprite asked, his voice higher than Jack had imagined, but the way he used it lended a cool, silky quality to his words.

            “Wha…?” Jack glanced down at where he continued to grip the knife, and stiffened. “No! Of course not!”

            “Aw,” he pouted. “Makes this a bit less interesting.”

            The sprite bounced forward in light steps, bending at the waist and tilting his head, like he was trying to get a look at Jack from several angles. “Name’s Rime,” he introduced. “And _you,_ ” Rime circled around Jack, and Jack had to crane his neck around to keep him in sight, “you’re the infamous Consort. I wondered if you were real.”

            Jack said nothing, but stared at Rime as he came to a stop in front of him.

            Rime frowned, straightening his posture as he crossed his arms. “Hey now, no need to get quiet on me.”

            “How did you get in?” Jack demanded.

            A look of boredom slackened Rime’s face. “It’s not so hard, I just came in through a hole in the ground. You’d think with how much attention he’s been getting and how much he brags about his lovely Consort, Pitch would have better security.” Rime sucked in mockingly through his teeth, and tangled his fingers behind his head. “He’s overconfident if you ask me, thinking no one would dare enter his domain.”

            Jack knew the lie for what it was, because he knew better than anyone how strong the safeguard keeping the outside world _out_ had been made since Hop had stumbled into the caves years ago. No uninvited guests would be able to find their way past the first hallway, where Pitch’s magic would keep them in an infinite loop until he dealt with them personally. Rime had to have been a tricky one to have been able to get past it.

            “Why are you here?” Jack asked.

            Rime held his hands palm-up at his sides as he shrugged. “Curiosity. You know us winter sprites—we’ve always got our fingers in someone’s business.” He waggled the digits, then brought his right hand around to tap his thumb to his lips. “The Nightmare King certainly keeps you under lock and key, Consort.”

            “My name is Jack Frost,” Jack said irritably, “and it’s for my own protection,” he defended weakly.

            “Right,” Rime drawled. “Of course I know your name is Jack Frost; Pitch makes sure everyone knows it. I just like _teasing_.” He flashed a sharp little grin. “It’s in my nature.”

            Rime sighed, and scratched the side of his head. “Well, my curiosity has been satisfied, sooo,” he turned on his heel, “I guess I’ll be going now.”

            “Wait!” Jack called before he knew what he was doing, taking a half-step forward.

            Rime halted, and glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

            “Are you,” Jack’s stomach lurched, excitement bubbling up now that some of his initial trepidation about the intruder had vanished. He’d never had a conversation with anyone but Pitch before. But Rime had traipsed into his life so quickly and Jack couldn’t just let him walk away now. “Are you ever coming back?”

           Rime chuckled, and while it wasn’t a nice sound, it was amused. “Do you want me to?” he asked indulgently.

            Jack considered the weight of his words as he answered. “Yes.”

            “Hm!” Rime nodded. “Okay, then. I will.”

            Rime walked away then, and, reassured, Jack didn’t feel the need to stop him that time.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Rime’s visits were infrequent. He would stay for a few hours, and only during the periods where Pitch was absent; doing important things establishing himself as a figure of power. Jack asked him why he needed to do such things when he already had so much strength just feeding off of Jack’s fear. Pitch explained that the stronger he was, the more he was feared by their fellow magical beings, the safer he’d be able to make Jack. According to Pitch, it was always about Jack’s protection.

            He made Jack feel guilty for ever questioning that.

            “Don’t you ever go outside?” Rime lay on one of the couches in the library, one leg draped over the arm while his upper body twisted for him to rest his head in his palm and his elbow on the cushion.

            At his question, Jack looked up from the book he’d been skimming. There were strange languages in some of the books Pitch owned. He spent many evenings trying to decipher them. He had little else to do when Pitch was gone for extended periods of time. He blinked, then looked back down at the text. “No.”

            “ _Never?_ ” Jack didn’t answer, and Rime groaned. He let his head fall, draping his body across the cushions like a particularly apathetic cat. “Boring.”

            Paper rustled as Jack flipped a page. “Sorry,” he said flatly.

            Rime watched him for a few minutes, dark eyes intent on what he could see of Jack’s face with his head bent over the book. Eventually he made an annoyed sound, and rolled from the couch into a standing position. “This has proved rather uneventful,” he commented with false cheer. “I’ll be taking my leave for the day. Perhaps I’ll return when I think you’re up for being more amusing. Unlike you, I _want_ to get out sometimes.”

            Rime strode to the door to see himself out. He paused before closing it when Jack’s voice sounded, soft and wistful behind him.

            Never looking up, Jack whispered, “I do want to, though.”

            Rime left in silence.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            “Catch.”

            Jack, shocked by Rime’s sudden appearance in the library, still reflexively caught the small object Rime tossed him. “What—?”

            “It’s a scry stone,” Rime explained. He walked up to Jack, and sat next to him on the couch. “A basic one. Nothing special. It only lets you see the area it was taken from. In that rock’s case,” he pointed at it, “it will let you see the nearby lake.”

            Jack rolled the stone between his hands. It was the size of his palm, flat, ovular, and translucent. He could see straight through to the lines of his palm at the center, though it became white with cloudy opacity at the edges. “I thought you weren’t going to come back. That I wasn’t amusing,” Jack said quietly.

            “I changed my mind,” Rime dismissed. “Look through it,” he urged.

            Jack did so. The moment he held it to his eye, it was like something in the stone itself rippled. Rather than look through at the rest of the room, Jack was instead looking out onto a lake, frozen over for winter. From his point of view, it was like he was standing on the bank. He turned his head, as if he was really there, to scan the rest of the lake, and his view shifted with him. He exhaled softly, and the sound carried a fragile awe.

            He knew this lake. He _remembered_ it. It was his lake. The one he’d woken up in, when the Moon had pulled him from the ice. It had looked different in the night so long ago than it did now.

            As he watched, people came onto the ice, wearing skates and scarves and coats.

            “Kids,” he murmured. “They’re skating.”

            “Not surprising,” Rime commented drolly. “It is winter.”

            “I’ve never seen clothing like that.”

            “Times change, Iceling, and the fashions with it.” Rime leaned back into the couch and yawned, closing his eyes.

            “Iceling?”

            “Just a nickname, Jack. Just a nickname. No need to fret.”

            Jack pulled the stone away, and smiled at Rime. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I’ll treasure it.”

            Rime waved his words away. He opened a single eye. “It’s no big deal.”

            But it was to Jack, though he didn’t argue. Instead, he let Rime take the nap he’d set himself up for, and continued looking through the stone at the lake.

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Present:**

 

            Bunny and Tooth sat across from each other in Bunny’s kitchen, drinking tea companionably. Outside, Jack meandered through the large vegetable garden that was flush against the side of Bunny’s cottage in the Warren. Bunny kept a sharp eye on him through the wide window above the sink.

             “You’ve talked to North right? He told you about Sandy’s theory; about Jack not knowing how to dream?” Tooth asked. It was almost strange to see her so still, her wings only giving the occasional flutter as she sat on one of his chairs. Her dainty feet didn’t quite brush the ground.

            “I have,” Bunny confirmed. “North and I also talked about it being possible that Pitch has been feeding off of his nightmares.”

            Tooth nodded. “And I think we’re right, but…I think it’s worse than that.”

            “How you mean?”

            “Well, when Jack first came to stay with me, North told me a bit about what he’d been like,” Tooth explained. “Quiet. Reclusive, for the most part. And while he might have had some wonder, North said it felt, _stunted_ , somehow. As for memories…” Tooth’s eyes strayed to the window, latching onto Jack’s form. “He said something strange at one point during his stay with me. At the time I thought he was avoiding the question, but now I’m starting to think he might have been telling the truth.”  
            “What are you thinkin’ Tooth?”

            “I asked him who he was before he met Pitch, and he said he wasn’t anyone. Bunny,” she sent him a distressed look, “I’m starting to think he really hasn’t ever lived without Pitch. In all the conversations I’ve had with him he never talks about himself.” She sighed tiredly. “How can we help him if he won’t tell us what’s wrong?”

            “How do we know there _is_ something wrong?” Bunny questioned, taking a sip of his tea.

            Tooth squinted her eyes with hinted vexation. “Bunny.”

            “I’m just saying Tooth,” he stated calmly. “For all we know it’s just a lover’s spat. I know we’ve got our theories—but that’s all they are. Theories.” He gestured vaguely at the window. “ _He_ certainly hasn’t said otherwise.”

            “A lover’s spat wouldn’t have set off the Blood Rite,” she said pointedly. “You and Sandy said so yourselves.”

            Bunny gripped his tea, breathing in the smell of chai. “I don’t trust him.”

            “…Neither did I,” she admitted quietly. Tooth cupped her own drink in her hands, and stared into it like it might give her answers. “I had my misgivings too, but when I saw him with one of my fairies...someone who we’ve always believed to be as bad as Pitch shouldn’t be so _scared_.”

            “He killed two children,” Bunny reminded lowly.

            “…I know.” She shook her head. “I _know_. But if North can feel things in his belly, I can feel it in my teeth. And my teeth are telling me he’s good. We just need to find out what’s going on—at _least_ why he’s in danger with Pitch.”

            Bunny gave her a studying look. “What are you asking, Tooth?”

            “Just—try. Just try. Be civil, at least. I know you don’t like him, and I can’t rightly blame you after what you saw. But give him the benefit of the doubt while he’s here with you. Maybe what we think we know is wrong.”

            Bunny considered her words, his face tightening before he reluctantly nodded. “Fine. But civility is all I’m giving him.”

            Tooth smiled. “That’s all I can ask for.”

            They finished their tea with little more talk, and then Bunny followed her outside. She hugged him goodbye, and he watched as she went to wish Jack farewell with crossed arms.

            He would accept the possibility that Tooth was right, that Jack wasn’t all bad, but he would offer no more than that. When it came to Jack Frost, he had no hope to spare for the best.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Jack slept in trees. Bunnymund had told him he could sleep where he liked. While there was a couch in his living room that Jack figured was where he was _expected_ to sleep, he’d been drawn to the outside. He’d tried the couch the first night, but halfway unto dawn he’d slipped out and climbed a tree instead. Bunnymund hadn’t commented on it other than giving Jack a strange look the first time, and let him be.

            In fact, that was all Bunnymund did. He let Jack be. He didn’t try to get Jack to talk to him, barely spared a polite nod whenever Jack retrieved food from the kitchen. Jack didn’t mind it. If Bunnymund wanted to pretend Jack wasn’t there, Jack would not begrudge him the act.

            But there was only so much Jack could explore before he ran out of things to do. There were areas he could have gone, but they were places obviously meant to remain undisturbed, and Jack respected that. To fill his time, Jack decided watching Bunnymund was the best course.

            It was interesting to observe someone else for once. Usually _he_ was the one who was watched; observed like an animal introduced to a new habitat. Would he take well to the area? Would he lash out? There’s a kind of degradation to being watched so closely, no matter how kind the eye.

            His observations were just brief peeks into whatever the other was doing. Usually it was painting, or drawing of some sort. Sometimes it was crochet, or knitting. It was strange how seeing the knitting needles brought the same desirous itch to his fingers that carving had.

            After three weeks of quiet existence, the most calm of any of his stays with the Guardians, Jack realized that in the time he’d been there he hadn’t spoken single word to Bunnymund. He’d considering making a request to visit Baby Tooth or Phil, but he felt his request wouldn’t be received nearly so well as it had with Toothiana. But in his time, Jack had also noticed Bunnymund tended not to feed himself as regularly as the others. While that wasn’t a big deal, seeing most mythical beings could go longer between meals with few repercussions, it wasn’t something to be ignored either. Jack decided to use that fact as a means of breaking his silence in Bunnymund’s care.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Aster glanced up from his sketchbook as Jack crested the top of the hill, carrying one of Bunny’s trays laden down with vegetables, fruits, block cheese, and a nutty bread. He narrowed his eyes. “What’s all this?”

            Jack set the tray down, his expression smooth as usual. “You haven’t eaten today.”

            He gave the food a once-over before setting Jack in his sights. “If this is an attempt to win me over or some nonsense—”

            “It’s not,” Jack interrupted. “You haven’t eaten, and I noticed. That’s all. Just that.”

            Aster gripped his pencil, and then set it aside in mild frustration. “I don’t get you.”

            Surprise flicked across Jack’s face like dying firelight. “I…don’t know what you mean.”

            Bunny exhaled heavily. “You’re not—you don’t act how I expected you to.” If anything, the boy was too _quiet_. He moved like a wraith, all ghosting footsteps and melancholy tombstone silence. It was unnerving.

            Jack’s head tilted minutely. “How did you expect me to be?” he asked quietly.

            “I expected you to be,” crueler, malevolent, more like Pitch, “different.”

            Jack didn’t question his vague answer.

            “I don’t understand you,” Aster continued, and as he spoke his words began to dip themselves in frustration. “You sought protection with us, but you don’t ask for anything. You’re somehow in danger from Pitch, but you won’t say _why_. It’s confusing. What can you hope to gain by staying silent about it?”

            “Hope?” Jack blinked, looked down at his feet, and when he looked back up, his eyes were glassy with a bewildered kind of blankness. “I don’t hope for anything.”

            Jack fiddled with his sleeves, and turned his head to the side. “Sorry,” he apologized needlessly, “I’ll leave you alone.”

            Jack left, but he didn’t taken the sudden chill he’d put in Aster’s chest with him.

           

*          *          *          *          *

 

            That night as Jack slept, Aster crept out of his cottage to find the boy. He discovered the tree, spotting the staff leaned against its trunk. So, that was where Jack had put it. He hadn’t seen the other carrying it around since he’d first arrived at the Warren with Tooth. He wondered why Jack didn’t carry it around more often. It certainly seemed to be important.

            Above him, Jack slept on a thick branch. He spotted a single bare foot dangling, and it was almost amazing how still Jack must have been able to keep in his sleep to avoid falling off. Telling himself that he was wrong, and that of course it would be there, it was there for everyone, Bunny reached out gently with center to feel for Jack’s hope.

            And was met with a horrible sense of _nothing_.

            Tears wet his eyes, because such a thing was so very _wrong_. Everyone had hope for something, even Pitch. He shouldn’t ever reach out and feel _nothing_ , feel _emptiness_ where there should be at least a _seed_ of hope.

            Aster didn’t realize how much the idea hurt him until he felt the prick of his own claws on his skin as he gripped his chest. He forced himself to calm down. He would go to bed. He would think about it, and in the morning he would take steps to see such an injustice rectified. Personal grudges aside, he couldn’t allow such a thing to continue.

            He looked at that dangling foot, motionless with almost corpse-like stiffness, and sighed. “Alright Tooth,” he murmured, “you win.”

            It seemed he’d have to be more than just civil, after all.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            “Jack, come over here for a tic.”

            Jack turned around from where he’d been watching the River of Color sweep across rocks to paint them various colors. Bunnymund stood behind him with a basket on his arm, and a vaguely impatient, but wary, look in his eye. Jack approached. “Yes?”

            Bunnymund gestured for Jack to follow him. “Come with me, we’re gonna try something, yeah?”

            Jack, having no excuse to refuse, obeyed. He was led to the same hill they’d had their previous conversation on. Bunnymund set the basket down, and when he opened it revealed the contents to be full of craft supplies, as well as two apples. He tossed one of the apples to Jack.

            “There, a snack. You’re too thin as it is, need to eat more.” Bunnymund gestured into the basket. “Pick something. We’re gonna spend the day creatively.”

            Jack had half a mind to question Bunnymund’s sudden change of heart toward him, when he spotted knitting needles and yarns in one corner of the basket. Jack’s fingers twitched. He sat down, setting the apple aside. He hesitantly requested, “Will you teach me to knit, Bunnymund?”

            The other sat across from him, and retrieved two sets of needles and yarn from the basket. “Not what I expected, but certainly. Here,” he handed Jack one of the larger sizes and chunkier yarns, “we’ll start simple. And call me Bunny.”

            Jack accepted the needles. A tiny smile bloomed on his lips. “Thank you, Bunny.”

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Jack left little more than a week later, but it was with a new set of knitting needles in his pocket.

            Bunny had been apathetic and against Jack before, and while he still didn’t carry exactly positive feelings for him, he was more concerned and curious now than before. After their short time of vague companionship, Bunny was beginning to wonder if he might not be wrong about Jack Frost after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember: Rime will only be appearing in /past/ segments. That bit he was in the present sections earlier on was all you'll see of him in the present. But now you get to see how he came to play his role in Jack's grand escape, aka the Blood Rite stuff.


	9. At the top of my lungs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I'll read through this later--when I'm a little less tired.

*          *          *          *          *

 

A calm despair, without angry convulsion or reproaches directed to heaven, is the essence of wisdom.

\--Alfred de Vigny, _Journal d’un poete,_ 1832

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Past:**

            “Absolutely not.”

            Jack clenched his fists, frustration whitening his knuckles. “Why not?”

            Pitch barely glanced up from his book. “Haven’t I told you before?” Pitch said with rising anger. “It’s dangerous for you to leave the caves.”

            Jack began pacing in front of the fireplace. “But you’ll be _protecting_ me!”

            Pitch closed his book, the pages barely a whisper against each other. The firelight flickered over the bookcases behind them, and created shadows on Pitch’s face that made his eyes glow all the brighter. “And what about you, Jack?” he said lowly.

            “What about me?” Jack snapped.

            Pitch obviously disliked Jack’s tone, a muscle in his cheek jumping. “You,” he began, “are dangerous, Jackson—or have you forgotten everything I’ve ever told you?”

            “You say that, but without my staff—which _you_ keep from me—to focus my magic I can barely make an ice patch or snow; so how dangerous could I _possibly be_ with it?” Jack accused, his voice growing louder and louder.

            There was a hollow silence following Jack’s words. Jack halted his pacing as awareness pricked down his spine like tapping nails. He turned hesitantly, nervous and frightened, to look at Pitch.

            If Jack had ever been afraid of Pitch’s anger, then he was terrified of his fury. Where his anger burned hot, his fury was cold, sharp, and very, very intelligent. That same fury was staring back at him now.

            “You want to know?” Pitch said calmly, inquisitively, and Jack’s heart pounded at the contrast it made with the smart cruelty in his eyes. “Fine.” He set his book—carefully, very gently—on the table in front of the couch, and stood. “Go to the entrance. I’ll meet you there in a moment.”

            He swept out of the room. Jack didn’t even consider disobeying, and followed his orders. When Pitch met him, he carried Jack’s staff in one hand. Pitch gestured at the hole. “Well? Go on.”

            “You mean, I can go outside?” Jack asked cautiously, because the fury had not faded from Pitch’s eyes.

            “Jack,” Pitch began, and Jack pulled his shoulders taught at the command in his voice, “ _go._ ”

            Jack went. Pitch was right behind him. Jack reveled for a moment at the fresh air, breathing deeply before he was ordered to follow Pitch. The Nightmare King led them to a lake. A familiar lake. The one Jack had watched through his scrying stone for over two decades. The one he had walked his first steps as Jack Frost across. It was mostly thawed now, a thin sheen of fragile ice all that remained of winter’s hold on it. Flowers had begun sprouting around the bank, and not a single cloud blotted the sky.

            Pitch handed Jack his staff. “Make it snow,” he ordered.

            Jack held the staff loosely, an unfamiliar thing in his hands. The rivets and dips in the wood felt strange on his skin, though he wondered if he should have known them. He sputtered. “But-but I don’t have experience using it—”

            “ _Make it snow, Jackson!_ ” Pitch hissed.

            Jack flinched back, instinctively clutching the staff to his chest. He slowly nodded, then raised it up and focused his magic into it. Hesitantly at first, clouds formed overhead, a light snowfall drifting down in fat, fluffy flakes. Satisfied, Jack made to lower his staff. Pitch’s hand wrapped around his wrist from behind, and forced him to keep it aloft.

            “Harder,” he demanded. “Make it snow harder.”

            Jack wordlessly obeyed and funneled more magic into his staff. The staff, starved for Jack’s magical energy, greedily absorbed every bit of power Jack gave it and released it into the snow clouds. They grew darker and heavier, the snow falling thicker each moment. Jack tried to cut off the flow of magic, but the staff continued to _pull_ it from him, attempting to fill itself after so long in abstinence.

            The wind changed, and turned the fall into a storm. “Pitch,” Jack desperately pleaded, “I can’t stop—it’s—I don’t know what to do!”

            “You wanted to know how dangerous you are, Jackson?” Pitch whispered in his ear, letting go of Jack’s wrist. “Just watch. You’ll find out.”

            The wind screamed around them, the snow coming so strong it was almost impossible to see two feet in front of them. The temperature dropped lower and lower, until it felt like his breath was being frozen in his lungs. It was no longer a storm—Jack had created a blizzard.

            The snow was different now. It was sharper, the flakes biting his skin. He turned to Pitch, but before he could speak, Pitch covered his mouth with a hand. Pitch looked out into the distance, eyes scanning the wall of white the snow had created, and smiled. It was not a kind smile.

            Pitch moved his hand from Jack’s mouth to cup the back of his neck, and pulled Jack along as he moved into the forest. Jack almost tripped over several hidden tree roots as snow layered the ground, but Pitch’s grip on his neck kept him upright. Jack was going to ask where they were going, until he heard the voices.

            “Janie, I’m cold,” a young voice said, barely heard over the wind.

            “I know David. I’m cold too,” Janie answered.

            Two children, the eldest appearing no older than ten and the youngest half that at most, huddled together at the bottom of a wide tree, attempting to hide their faces from the wind. The eldest, a girl named Janie, wore a thick cotton dress and boots, likely having dressed for the cool weather of early spring. The younger, the boy David, had a thin long-sleeved shirt and a pair of brown corduroys, as well as boots like Janie. David buried his face in Janie’s neck.

            “No,” Jack murmured. He pulled from Pitch’s hold, and stumbled forward. He reached for them, and his hand passed through. He lurched back, spinning to Pitch.

            “How do I stop the snow?” he demanded, yelling over the wind. “They’re going to get sick!”

            Pitch slowly raised a brow. “How am I supposed to know, Jack? _You’re_ the one that made it.”

            “Janie, my fingers hurt,” David said, his voice shaky. “My nose, too.”

            Janie took David’s hands in hers, and rubbed them. It was difficult with how hard they were both shivering. Their fingers were dark red at the tips. “Th-there.”

            “It still hurts,” he whimpered.

            Jack gave a panicked look to the children. “They’re going to get frostbite, Pitch, please! How do I stop the blizzard?”

            “If you want it to stop, _you_ have to do it.”

            “But,” Jack reached up, and grabbed his hair, “but I don’t know _how!_ ”

            “My fingers are turning colors,” David chattered. “Janie, so’s your nose.”

            Jack dropped to his knees at their side. When he looked, he found both of their noses were purpling, their lips turning blue, and their fingers getting darker and darker all down the digit with each moment. The temperature had dropped so rapidly, and gotten so low that the frostbite was setting in faster than Jack expected.

            Breathing rapidly, Jack gripped his staff and focused on the storm, trying to cut off the magic that he was still siphoning into it without meaning to. But he found it was impossible. The more he touched his magic the more that seemed to pour out. It was like trying to hold back the flood after tearing down the dam, and all of his efforts to stop it were washed away in the torrent.

            Time passed.

            “Janie I can’t feel my fingers.”

            “It’s okay. We’ll warm up in a bit.”  
            And Jack—

            “I wanna go home.”

            “Soon.” Their words were becoming sluggish, slurring together. “Soon as th’ snow stops. We’ll go home. Mama’ll have soup.”

            “I like soup.”

            —just—

            “When will the snow stop, Janie?”

            “Who’s Janie?”

            “You’re Janie.”

            “I am? Oh.”

            —kept—

            “I’m tired....Janie? Janie, are you awake? I’m _tired_. Janie? Wake up. Wake up, Janie, I’m _tired._ ”

            — _trying._

            Jack keened as he squeezed the staff until the wood bit into his skin. He couldn’t do it.

            He cast the staff aside, fueling every bit of frustration he had into the motion. He reached out and tried to touch the children. His hands passed through them no matter how many times he tried to pick them up, or touch the frozen hair on Janie’s tiny, unmoving head, or clutch David’s black fingers as his breathing slowed and his eyelids fluttered. Every time, every _single time_ he reached for them he could not touch them.

            Because no one believed in Jack Frost.

            A horrible, high-pitched sound clawed up his throat and was torn from his lips by the dying wind. Having taken the majority of the magic Jack had kept at bay for centuries, he was left drained as the blizzard, no longer fed the energy that kept it going in such an unseasonable time, began to fade. Jack wished he could fade with it.

            David’s eyelids drooped, his breaths shallow and very slow. He leaned into Janie’s stiff body.

            “No, no,” Jack panicked. His hands hovered over David. “Stay awake, David, stay awake. You can’t sleep now. You can’t sleep like Janie. You won’t wake up, David; _stay awake_.”

            But David could not hear Jack Frost. He could not see him. He could not touch him. And, so, he did not listen.

            David’s eyes closed, and a minute later, his breathing stopped.

            Jack screamed.

            “It’s not fair! It’s not _fair!_ ” He clutched his hair in his hands, nails digging into his scalp. He bared his teeth like a wounded thing. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed, each word tearing pieces of himself away and taking them with it. Tears wet his face, and he sniffed rapidly as his nose began to drip. His voice came out high-pitched and stuffy (the sound of his heart breaking). “I didn’t know how to stop. I never meant—I didn’t _know._ ”

            Jack curled forward, unable to look at their pale, frostbitten faces any longer. “I’m so sorry.”

            Pitch laid his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You see, Jack?” he said softly. “They would hate you. You have the power to do harm, and they would not understand.”

            _No,_ Jack thought.

            “All your efforts would only cause grief.”

Pitch was _wrong_.

“You should have listened to me from the start.”

            If he’d only been allowed to learn to use his magic properly—

            “But instead, you have killed these two children.”

            Jack had no thoughts of disagreement for that, because he agreed.

            Jack uncurled himself haltingly, flat eyes falling upon Janie and David’s frozen faces.

            Because he couldn’t control himself, he had killed them. It was his fault.

            Pitch allowed him time to control his tears until something caught his attention.

            “Ah, we’d best be leaving.” He pulled Jack to his feet, and wiped his cheeks. “Have you learned your lesson Jack?”

            Jack, though there was a seed in him that protested the action, nodded.

            “And will I be hearing of you wanting to leave our home again?”

            Jack shook his head.

            “Good.” Pitch kissed his forehead. “Do you love me, Jack?”

            The newly formed seed felt disgust at the question, but Jack forced the words out. “I love you.”

            Pitch sighed contently. “Let us be off. The rabbit will be here soon—I’d nearly forgotten it was his holiday today. I can already sense his fear nearby; he’s quite panicked.”

            He ushered Jack ahead of him deeper into the woods. He heard the arrival of someone else behind them, and the horrified noises he made. He never looked back, but just before Pitch cloaked them with shadows he heard a voice thick with tears shout, “ _Murderer!_ ” at his back.

            It would echo in his ears indefinitely for the nearly five decades after.

           

*          *          *          *          *

**Present:**

 

            The Sandman had welcomed Jack back to his palace warmly. Jack had discovered that it was surprisingly comforting to return to his room with the tall windows. It was strange how much easier it was becoming to enjoy things.

            His previous routine with the Sandman was taken up swiftly once more. He would spend some nights observing the mermaids in their cove, and on rare occasions drifted closer at their beckoning, but never too close. They would titter and flutter their eyelashes at him playfully, speaking in some language that sounded more like whistling than words. He suspected they liked watching him just as much as he liked watching them, if their enthusiasm was anything to go by.

            On the nights he went with the Sandman, Jack surprised himself by starting conversations. Most of them was spent deciphering the Sandman’s messages, but the action alone was shocking.

            About halfway into his stay, a smart little tooth fairy found them during one such night. Baby Tooth, now that she knew where Jack would be some nights and at what time, became a regular visitor to the sand cloud in the sky. She would only stay for a few minutes before continuing her duties to pick up whatever tooth she’d been assigned. Often, she tried to talk Jack into going with her while she retrieved it. Jack always refused, until two nights before his switch to the North Pole.

            “Alright,” he agreed cautiously. “But just this once.”

            Baby Tooth twittered happily, clapping her hands in glee. Jack looked hesitantly at Sandy, who nodded his head in approval. Sandy brought them down to the window Baby Tooth indicated, and the three of them slipped inside. While Baby Tooth exchanged tooth for coin, he stood by the sleeping child’s bed. It was a young girl, probably ten or eleven, with a firm jaw and choppy, medium length brown hair. When Sandy sprinkled sand over her head, a unicorn danced brightly in the air.

            Awed, curious, and feeling something wholly unfamiliar and soft prickle in his chest, Jack leaned forward.

            (“ _I don’t want_ him _near_ any _children._ ”)

            He pulled back, and tucked his hands firmly into his hoodie pocket.

            Sandy gave him an odd look when they left, Jack being stiffer than he’d been when they arrived, but it was forgotten as they saw Baby Tooth off to continue her work. When she was gone, Jack smiled dimly.

            “I’m going to take a nap, Sandman,” he said. Sandy nodded, and Jack lay back on the cloud. It took a few minutes for him to fall asleep. Unbeknownst to him, some of the sand from the cloud detached itself, and began to swirl above his head.

            When Sandy noticed, his eyes glimmered with rare wetness. Because for the first time, Jack was dreaming.

            Ignorant to the development within himself, Jack continued to sleep, a small sand version of himself and Baby Tooth playing in snow banks above his head.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the end is a bit lackluster. I put a bunch of energy into the past section, because it was a pretty important part I think. Think are gonna start picking up soon enough.


	10. You could come and save me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a few days late! Whoopsie. *chagrined* We're starting to get into the thick of things with these next chapters, so be ready for that!   
> Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy. I'll try to go through and check for typos and such later, sorry if there are any glaring mistakes!

*          *          *          *          *

 

It is human to hate those whom we have injured.

\--Tacitus, _Life of Agricola,_ c. C.E. 98

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Past:**

            In the aftermath of 1968, Jack Frost stopped speaking. He stopped doing much of anything, really. Not that that bothered Pitch overmuch. He was leaving Jack by himself and going off to do who knew what more frequently since Jack’s sudden jolting into this silent form of ‘obedience.’ While that meant Jack wasn’t forced to have nightmares each night for Pitch to absorb when he was on his trips, he had long since stopped dreaming naturally. Instead, on nights where nightmares weren’t prevalent, he had fitful, dreamless sleep that made him feel more tired upon waking than he’d been when he went to sleep.

            Jack had been like that for a few months before Rime visited again.

            “Heard you killed some kids,” he said tactlessly. “Easter Bunny’s got you on his blacklist, or so word on the grapevine says. Absolutely despises you.” When Jack failed to react to his taunts, and remained sitting oddly still on the library couch, Rime narrowed his eyes. He circled around, so that he could face Jack. “Oi, what’s wrong with—” Rime cut himself off abruptly as Jack’s face came into view.

            Jack knew what Rime was seeing. It was the same thing he saw in the mirror of the vanity in his and Pitch’s room. Shadowy bruises under his eyes, like he’d smudged ink on his skin. His skin gave the impression of papery thinness, as though a sudden movement might tear him open. His eyes, blank and dull, dull, _dull._ The eyes of a doll. (The eyes of a corpse.)

            “You’ve been biting your lips,” Rime observed, because he was unsure what else he should say.

            At Rime’s mention of the action Jack did just that, taking his bottom lip between his teeth and biting until the scabs opened and blood welled against his tongue. “Rime,” he said, voice cracking despite how soft his tone, “have you ever hated yourself?”

            The muscles in his back tensed, and Rime crossed his arms tight across his chest. “No.”

            Jack stared at him, and said nothing, a strange, empty blankness his only expression.

            (It was a face that, once he’d put it on, Jack would rarely take off again for almost fifty years.)

           

*          *          *          *          *

**Present:**

 

            _A giggle. A figure he recognized, because he’d carved it once. And a face he didn’t, but felt he should. His name, said like he’d never heard it before, with laughter dancing in the syllables._

_“Jackson!”_

Jack woke up. He sat up in his bed with the slow, careful movements of someone deep in thought. He’d only recently started dreaming without nightmares, just before he’d come here to the Pole. He had forgotten what it was like.

            He clenched the sheets in his hand, and tried to call back the face of the girl from his dream. Who was she? He’d asked himself that a million-million times, and until now he’d never felt close to the answer. He was having trouble bringing to mind her mouth, her nose, the shape of her cheeks, but he could remember the eyes. Pretty, brown, bright. He wanted to know more.

            But he wouldn’t have the time.

            Jack’s breathing hitched.

            …that’s right. After this month with North, his time would be half over. Had almost sixth months passed so quickly? Just six more, and then Pitch would come for him again. And when that happened…

            Jack honestly didn’t know what Pitch had planned. At worst, he’d lock Jack in the Room forever and never let him free, forced to drown in his own nightmares.

            At best, Pitch would simply kill him.

            Either way, after the remaining sixth months, his time was up. No more dreams, or figuring out who the girl was. No more seeing lovely places, or exploring. No more watching Phil carve—

            Jack’s heart lurched.

            …no more Phil. No more Baby Tooth. (No more Guardians.)

            No more anything.

            _Unless it didn’t have to be the end._

            The thought was a quiet thing, like a child tugging cautiously at his shirt hem. Unless he could stay away from Pitch forever. Unless he could _find a way_.

            But Jack knew no way. Outside of this year of respite, he’d never given notice to the idea of a future outside of Pitch. He’d never felt he deserved such a thing. Now, though…even if he didn’t deserve it, Jack _wanted_ it.

            He knew one person that might be able to help him.

            Jack climbed out of his bed, and set out in search of Nicholas St. North.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Jack found him by the globe, rubbing his beard thoughtfully as he observed the twinkling lights. Jack looked down at his feet, even as he drew North’s attention with a hushed call of his name.

            “North?”

            “Hm?” North turned, and smiled upon seeing Jack. “Ah! Jack, yes, what do you need?” When Jack continued staring at his feet, North’s smile slipped a bit. “Is everything alright?”

            Jack took a heavy breath, and lifted his head in small fractions. When he finally met North’s eyes, his own were nervous and worried. (Jack was unaware that this was the most expression North had ever seen from him, and while it relieved him to discover Jack was capable of such things, it also made his chest tight with anxiety that these were the emotions he was showing.)  “I need to talk to you,” he declared.

            North, sensing the seriousness of the situation, gestured for Jack to follow him. “We will speak in my office.”

            Jack followed. North’s office, as it turned out, was a floor up, and overlooked the main floor if you stepped out. The inside contained a huge desk, and large windows that framed a view of a frozen landscape. The walls were lined with knick-knacks and the occasional snow globe. North, rather than sit behind the desk, perched himself on one corner of it. He loosely clasped his hands over his belly, and gave Jack his complete attention.

            “What are you needing?” he asked soothingly.

            “I…,” Jack shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket. How did one ask for help they didn’t deserve? Jack wasn’t sure. He opened his mouth, and for the first time in centuries, let the words come unchecked. “I am not worth saving.”

            North blinked, taken aback. “Jack?”

            Jack shook his head, and held up a hand; a plea for North to let him go uninterrupted. “I am Pitch’s Consort, and I know he is your enemy and by association you should _despise_ me.” Jack gripped his hoodie where his heart beat too quick in his chest ( _like hummingbird wings_ , came the thought, which he banished). “And I know that _you_ know that I once did something _horrible_ that I can’t be forgiven for, and _I am not worth saving._ ”

            Silence hung for a few moments, broken only by the sound of Jack’s choppy breathing. When it became apparent that he had finished speaking, North quietly asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

            Jack inhaled deeply, and when he looked at North his eyes were wide and shattered like so much broken mirror. “Because,” he breathed, “I’m asking you to save me anyway.”

            North got off the desk, and approached Jack. When the winter boy didn’t flinch away, North placed his hands on his shoulders, careful not to bear down their full weight. “I will do everything in my power to keep you safe,” North swore, “but I, _we_ , the Guardians, need to know what we are saving you _from._ ”

            Jack nodded very slowly. “I don’t,” he swallowed, “I don’t want to go back.”

            “To Pitch?”

            Jack nodded again.

            “Jack.” North crouched, so that he and Jack were eye-level. “Why are you in danger from Pitch? We have all been wondering why, if you are his Consort, he is a threat to you? We will protect you, yes, even Bunny,” he added when Jack glanced away in doubt. “But please, can you tell me _why_ you don’t want to return to him?”

            Jack’s face closed off, unwilling to admit his own shame at being subservient to Pitch for so long; the way he’d been used and molded to Pitch’s liking so that he didn’t recognize the boy who’d first risen from the lake three hundred years ago as being him anymore. All those years in the dark had killed that part of him, scooped it out until only the flesh remained to mourn the loss of who he’d been.

            How could he admit those things?

            So Jack turned on his censor, and only let the tiniest bit of the truth free. “I don’t want to be locked away anymore.”

            “Is that what he did?” North clarified. “He locked you away, against your will? Is that why you were never seen alone?”

            Jack nodded. “I wasn’t allowed to leave.”

            “Like a prisoner,” North murmured. He stared at Jack like he knew there was more, but with the return of Jack’s blankness, he didn’t attempt to pry it from him. Rather, its appearance brought sad creases to the outer corners of his eyes. North pulled away, his hands dropping to his sides, though he held them in a loose fist. “I will talk to the other Guardians. We will find a way to keep Pitch away from you. You don’t have to go back.”

            He, though believing them only superficial, was affected by the words. _You don’t have to go back._ It was as though he’d been wearing some invisible collar for centuries, and North had just snapped open the lock. He suddenly wanted to jump into the wind and just _fly_ , which he hadn’t done since his first fumbling steps on the lake. The onset of the urge surprised him, and he shoved it back down in his fear of its unfamiliarity.

            “Thank you,” Jack said, voice hush. He backed toward the door, and pulled it open. He glanced at one of the snow globes, and paused, spinning back around. “North?”

            “Yes?”

            “Will you take me somewhere?”

            North was surprised. “Now?”

            “Yes,” Jack said. “I need to go before I forget.”

            “Well then,” he grabbed up two snow globes, and swirled one of them. He held it in front of Jack. “Picture the place, then tell it where you want to go.”

            Jack leaned forward a bit, and did as told. The image of the lake, _his_ lake, at the forefront of his mind, he whispered, “The lake.”

            False snow swirled in the glass, dissipating to show the lake’s surface glimmering in the sun. North tossed the snow globe to the floor a few feet away, and it burst into a swirling vortex Jack had, at that point, only seen a few times. North ushered him through first. His stomach lurched, and he stumbled as he passed through the other side. He found his footing as North stepped out behind him, and laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. Jack slipped away from it easily when he walked forward.

            Jack looked around, searching for one tree in particular. It was nearby on the bank, its roots a knotted mess at the base—which was exactly why he’d asked Rime to hide his treasures there. He searched until he found a cloth sack. He opened it, and pulled the objects out one by one to check them over, aware that North was watching him from the side. First was the scrying stone Rime had given him. Jack smoothed his finger over the top, then set it aside. Next was a thin volume of poetry, and he flipped it open to show a delicate, faded hummingbird feather, preserved between the pages. He closed that, and set it aside as well. Lastly, he pulled out the carving of the girl from his dreams. He blew gently on the crevasses, an attempt to knock loose any dust or dirt. He stared at the blank, featureless face, and felt some tiny curl of warmth at the thought that he’d finally be able to add to it. He knew her eyes, now.

            Jack tucked the three items in his pocket, alongside the wooden horse from Phil, and stood. He held the sack in his hand, to throw away later.

            “I’m ready,” Jack said.

            North nodded, glancing at Jack’s pocket curiously, but with a hint of knowing. “Precious things?”

            “Yes,” Jack replied, but did not go into detail.

            North didn’t pry. They were back in North’s office seconds later, but before Jack could leave, North stopped him with a final question.

            “When Pitch asked you to be his Consort,” North asked Jack, as the latter hovered in the doorway with his back turned, “why did you accept?”

            “Ask?” Jack looked over his shoulder. “He never _asked_.”

            Jack left the room, and North was left to piece together the implications of what that meant.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            It took North less than twenty four hours to send word to the rest of the Guardians with the latest developments, and the little information Jack had shared with him regarding his life with Pitch. It took even less time for him to begin researching a way to help the winter spirit.

            Jack Frost was free. Nicholas St. North intended to make sure it stayed that way.


	11. I don't really know where the world is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Cracks knuckles* We're setting in for the long run. I estimate five, maybe six chapters left. Here we go. Will search for needed editing later, but for now my fingers hurt.

*          *          *          *          *

 

A word is dead

When it is said,

Some say.

I say it just

Begins to live

That day.

\--Emily Dickinson, poem no. 1212,c. 1872

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Past:**

            The food was tasteless in his mouth.

            But he chewed. He chewed because he had to. Because Pitch had told him to eat, and he couldn’t think of disobeying.

            “It is good to see you so obedient,” Pitch remarked, idly looking at the piece of neatly cut chicken on his fork. “You used to cause so much trouble. I am glad you have seen reason.”

            Jack did not respond, but continued to eat.

            Pitch ate the chicken thoughtfully, and when he swallowed, took a drink from a tall glass of blood red wine. “Just think, we will continue like this, just the two of us, forever. Isn’t that pleasant?”

            Forever. They would be like this…forever.

            Jack Frost had been teetering on the edge of breaking, with the choice of letting himself fall and fracture into so many shards, or (the word ‘forever’ echoed in his head in his mouth in his _heart_ and he _did not want that forever_ ) he could _pull himself back_.

            Jack lifted his chin, his face the blank that had become normal. He looked at Pitch. There was a _spark_.

            “Of course,” he answered.

            Pitch smiled. “Wonderful.”

            They continued eating as the seed of rebellion was planted in the chest of Jack Frost.

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Present:**

 

            Toothiana sipped her tea, and watched Jack from over the rim of her cup. He’d only come back to Tooth Palace a few days ago, the fairy he called Baby Tooth hovering at his shoulder every chance she got. Really, if the little one hadn’t been doing her duties Toothiana would have been a little worried at how attached they were.

            She took note of the staff leaning against a nearby pillar. The last time she’d seen him carrying it around, it had been during the Blood Rite, when he had had to use it. Ever since, it had always been hidden away somewhere. But since his coming to the Palace, he’d taken to carrying it with him between locations, setting it down the moment he reached whatever destination he’d had in mind. Like it was an afterthought.

            Toothiana recognized a power conduit when she saw one. Without his staff, Jack was surely left less powerful than he was with it. But the way he handled it, always so quick to set it aside if he had it with him at all, made Toothiana wonder if Jack wasn’t terrified of himself.

            Her small thumb glided over the teacup handle, the gloss smooth and shiny. She contemplated North’s information. Jack was free, he said, and intended it keep it that way. But Tooth was beginning to think that wasn’t entirely correct. She suspected his bondage went deeper than the mere body. He was free, wasn’t he? Yet once he was in a place he rarely left it, never tried to venture out on his own. He’d contently stayed in the Tooth Palace during his stay, and only sought to slip between places he’d already been, like North’s Workshop. He made his presence as small as possible, and seemed to treat himself as a burden.

            There was only so much physical freedom could do if the mind was still in shackles.

            Luckily, Tooth considered herself to be excellent at picking locks.

            “Jack?” she asked, and when his attention turned to her, continued. “Have you ever considered going out with the girls to collect teeth?”

            Jack’s fingers tightened around his cup. “No…”

            She smiled kindly, and took a sip. “You can if you want. We’d have to find a way for you to move around quickly, since you can’t fly like us, but that shouldn’t be too difficult. I’m sure North or Sandy could come up with something.” Maybe even Bunny, with the new, less hostile interest he’d taken in the situation.

            Jack surprised her when he responded, quietly, “I can fly.”

            “You can?” She furrowed her brows, great liquid eyes curious and bewildered. “Then why haven’t you?”

            Jack’s eyes darted to his staff, then away. Ah. Tooth gave a mental nod. So that was it.

            “Are you afraid of it, Jack?”

            Jack jolted, his eyes wide and uncertain.

            Something like sadness gripped her heart. “It’s a part of you,” she said calmly, “but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. When was the last time you flew?”

            Jack pulled the hem of his hoodie sleeves over his palms, fiddling with the ends. “Three hundred years ago.” Toothiana hid the shock from her face. “That was when Pitch found me. And after that I was never—…almost, never allowed to use it.”

            Three hundred years to someone like the Guardians wasn’t very long when you lived a life like they did. But in a situation like Jack’s, forced to live stagnant and isolated, three hundred years could feel like an eternity.

            A word Jack had said niggled at her. _Found_ , he’d said. Pitch had _found_ him. It brought back to mind her theory of Jack having always been with Pitch. “Jack, how long were you alone before Pitch found you?”

            Jack seemed confused. “An hour? It might have been two.”

            Tooth was silent for a moment. “And in that hour,” she said lowly, “you flew?”

            Longing swept Jack’s face like a passing wind, and was gone. “Yes. Just a little bit.”

            Tooth stared down into her tea. “I think,” she began soothingly, “that you should go flying.”

            “You won’t keep watch on me?” he asked incredulously.

            “No.” She gave him a look that was two parts kind, and one part terrible understanding. “You’re not a prisoner, Jack. You don’t need to be supervised like one. But if it makes you more comfortable, you can go with some of the fairies on their rounds.”

            Jack’s face was blank, like he wasn’t sure how to respond, before he gave a stilted nod. “Okay,” he said, eyes darting to his staff nervously. “Okay. I’ll try it.”

            Tooth stood up, and her wings fluttered as she came to hover by her chair. “I’ll alert some of the fairies then. There’s a group about to head to…,” she trailed, her eyes gaining a far off look as locations flooded her mind, “Russia. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind you going with them.”

            Jack retrieved his staff, holding it carefully in his palms. “Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll just…take a moment to try and figure out how this works again.”

            As he made to leave the high pavilion they always had their tea on, Tooth abruptly remembered something. Once, she’d asked him who he’d been before he was with Pitch, and his answer had led her to believe he’d always been with Pitch. (And she’d been right.) But now, it occurred to her that there was another question she should have asked.

            “Jack,” she called, and when he turned she asked, “Who were you before you were Jack Frost?” He seemed confused, so she expounded. “Were you human? Were you already a spirit?”

            “But,” his words were stunted, and heavy with pauses, “I wasn’t _anyone_ before I was Jack Frost. I woke up like this.”

            “You mean,” Tooth’s tongue felt thick in her mouth, “you don’t remember?”

            Jack shook his head. “Am I supposed to?”

            “Maybe,” she answered, but reassured, “It will be alright. We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry. Have fun flying.”

            Jack hesitated, but went on his way. Tooth watched him go, her mind turning to the hundreds of thousands of tooth boxes in her archives, and wondered if one of them belonged to the boy with winter in his eyes.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            The first few tries were less than graceful, but it hadn’t taken Jack long to get the hang of flying. He took to the wind like it was an extension of himself, slipping into it like he’d shed his skin and replaced it with sky. It felt right.

            Jack was careful not to use the staff for anything else, memories of a blizzard and fingers frozen black making him cautious. The group of fairies he was with worked efficiently, and they steadily worked their way across Russia. Between the cold and the wind, Jack felt more at peace than he’d ever felt previous.

            They were passing over a forest when smoke caught his eye. Smoke? This deep in the woods? It wasn’t the smoke of a wild fire, but rather the more tame, streamlined smoke that came from chimneys. Who would live so far from other people?

            Curiosity, something Jack had long stopped paying attention to, stroked his awareness with cautious fingers, and for the first time in a long while Jack reached out and grabbed hold.

            A fairy turned and twittered a question at him when he idled in the air, and Jack gave her the best look of reassurance he was capable of. “I’ll catch up,” he promised. “I just want to look at something real quick.”

            She nodded uncertainly, but left him to his devices. Jack swooped below the tree line, following the smoke, and when he touched ground it was in front of a hut. But it was like no hut he’d ever seen before. The roof, which came to a high point, was covered in straw and thin patches of snow, the chimney whose smoke he’d followed reaching high and crooked from the left side. The porch had a roof, but it was rotted through in places, and three stairs leading up to it were nothing but rickety looking planks, nails sticking out hazardously. But the most extraordinary, strange thing about it were the long _chicken legs_ that held it up, and kept the stairs from touching ground.

            As he awed, the hut suddenly lurched forward, the chicken legs bending so that the stairs rested at Jack’s feet. He shot back a step, surprised, and the door to the hut opened.

           Jack pulled his staff close to his chest, and despite the warning bells clanging in his head, was drawn forward. The stairs creaked under his feet, and he was careful not to step on a nail. He crossed the porch and stepped through the door. It closed behind him.

            He looked around. A stove, thick and heavy, was pushed against the wall to the right. Shelves were haphazardly attached all around the room, various strange things in jars resting upon them. To his left was a bed, the mattress thick with straw that poked through in places.

            There was a fire across the hut’s one room. In front of it Baba Yaga sat in a creaking rocking chair

“Hello Jack,” she said in a voice like scraping metal. She gave a wrinkled smile, and the firelight glinted on her iron teeth. She tilted her head, clumped hanks of long white hair falling into her face as she gestured at the chair next to her own. “Won’t you have a seat?”

            Jack found himself unable to say no. As he crossed to the fellow rocking chair, the floorboards groaned.

            “Baba Yaga,” he greeted quietly, perched on the end of his seat like a bird prepared for flight.

            “Jack.” She took a deep breath through her sharp nose. “You have been to St. Petersburg,” she noted.

            “How did you know?” he asked, surprised.

            “I know the Russian smell,” she answered. “And while you do not have it, you do carry traces.”

            Jack considered trying to subtly sniff himself, but abandoned the idea.

            “So the pet escapes its cage,” she said, “but for how long? Pitch isn’t one to forgive his things easily, Jack.”

            “I’m not going back,” Jack denied.

            “Oh, you _aren’t?_ ” Her thick eyebrows writhed up her forehead. “But aren’t you tied to him? You still obey his rules, don’t you?”

            “That’s not true!” Jack exclaimed, suddenly heated. “I’m not obeying his rules! I-I’m _speaking!_ I took off the cloak! I _left his side!_ ”

            “Bah!” She waved away his words with one spindly hand. “What do those rules matter? I’m talking about the unspoken ones, the ones he forced into you without ever telling you what they were.” She reached out, her arms suddenly impossibly long, and tapped his forehead with one chipped nail, the smell of the rot at the beds invading his nose. “I’m talking about the rules in _here_.”

            “I-I don’t,” he said adamantly as she retracted her hand. “I don’t follow his rules.”

            “Of course you do,” she mocked cruelly. “You obey him even now, you’re his Consort—”

            “ _I’m not his Consort!_ ”

            Silence rang out following his outburst, the crackling fire catching on the dark blue of Baba Yaga’s eyes. She looked him over for a moment, then sat back in her chair, the red and black of her peasant dress making her face and skin seem paler than before.

            “Well then, why didn’t you say so?”

            Jack floundered. “What?”

            “Of course you won’t be free of him so long as you consider yourself his,” she explained, “but since you don’t, it might just be possible after all.”

            “Oh,” he whispered.

            She grunted, and the wrinkles around her eyes might suddenly have been the kindest thing he’d ever seen. “Remember that, and you’ll get by.” She stomped on the floor once, and the front door swung open. “Now get out of my hut; I have things to do. And Jack,” she added when he started to stand. She locked eyes with him, “There are some ties that only the soul can break.”

            He nodded, trying to puzzle out what she meant, but not sure where to even start. He left the hut, and the moment his feet were on the ground once more, the house stood up on its chicken legs and began walking away.

            “Thank you!” he yelled after it.

            When the hut was out of sight, Jack looked up through the trees at the sky. He rose into the air gently, taking a deep breath.

            “I am not his Consort,” he murmured aloud, and believed it.

 


	12. I would take a whisper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shimmies happily* Oh we are really starting to get to the important stuff now. Hold onto your butts, everyone.

*          *          *          *          *

 

But screw your courage to the sticking place

And we’ll not fail.

\--Shakespeare, _Macbeth_ ,I, vii

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Past:**

            Jack scoured the bookshelves, pulling down ancient tomes with cracked leather binding and powdery pages. He skimmed a forgotten language he’d learned over centuries of self-study, looking for something, _anything_ , that might be of aid. The words from his previous conversation with Pitch strained at the edges of his blank expression, threatening to spill into his eyes.

            ( _“Who was I before you found me?”_

_“You were no one.”_

            _“Then, was I someone before I was Jack Frost?”_

_“No, Jackson. You were never anyone.”_

            _“So, who am I now?”_

 _“Mine.”_ )

            Jack Frost didn’t want to belong to anyone but himself.

            He pulled another book from the shelf, this one thin and binding worn, his hands carrying a desperation his face had forgotten how to show, and scanned the title. He paused.

            _Protection Spells,_ he read.

            He flipped it open, the pages thin and delicate. He almost couldn’t read the writing, and what he could read was complex. Some words’ meanings escaped him, beyond his learned vocabulary of the language. But each and every page carried some spell or charm of protection. If he was going to find anything, he felt in his gut that it would be in these pages.

            Jack picked a specific bookcase, crouching down and slipping it on the bottom shelf between two thick books as wide as his hand. He would hide it there for now, and would take the opportunity to study it when Pitch was out on one of his trips.

            It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And that was all he needed for a plan to begin forming.

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Present:**

 

            Jack was sleeping in trees again.

            Aster looked up at the boy, foot dangling off the branch, and sighed. He really should make it more apparent to Jack that he was welcome on the couch, if he wanted it. Only one day back in the Warren and the other was as careful not to make a nuisance of himself as ever. Overly polite, blank, and too quiet.

            But he was going to change that. No waiting a few weeks for things to settle, or having Jack come to him. Bunny was on the initiative, and he was striking while the iron was hot.

            The sun was rising in the Warren, and Bunny had made breakfast.

            “Jack?” He rapped the base of the tree trunk with his foot, the power behind the motion sending little vibrations through the wood. A few weak leaves trembled and gave way, drifting to the earth below. “Oi, wake up, I’ve got grub for us.”

            Jack rolled onto his side, blinking his eyes open groggily. “Bunnymund?”

            Aster held up a covered basket. “Brekkies, Jack. Hungry?”

            Jack blinked himself awake, and in the next moment had dropped from the branch. He drifted to the ground, staff in hand, as light as one of the leaves. He touched ground at Aster’s side, and crossed his chest with the staff. It had been quite a surprise for Bunny when Tooth had told him Jack could fly, and the small demonstration left him vaguely speechless for a moment. “You didn’t have to,” he said.

            “Ah hush it, Jack.” Aster dropped to his haunches and made one hop away, basket cradled carefully in one hand. “Come on, we’re eating by the river.”

            Jack followed, and in no time they were settled atop one of the flatter boulders that edged the colorful river, the bottom stained various colors by the water. Jack accepted the sandwich he was offered. He took a bite, and paused when it proved harder to chew than he expected.

            “What--?” he attempted, the sandwich sticking to the roof of his mouth and muffling his words. It was thick, but sweet in a way he wouldn’t normally associate with sugar, and reminded him of nuts. He chewed some more, and when he’d swallowed his mouthful looked thoughtfully at the light brown spread.

            Aster chuckled at Jack’s struggle. “It’s peanut butter,” he explained. “You like it?”

            “Peanut butter?” Jack ruminated for a moment. “It’s good. But thick.”

            “Mmhmm.” Bunny waved his own sandwich vaguely. “Mine’s got jam on. I’ve got others, you can try one of those next if you like.”

            “I like jam,” Jack confirmed, and that was answer enough.

            Aster observed Jack as they ate in relative silence, sipping apple juice from small jars. He reached out with his senses, his magic, hoping to find hope in Jack as well. He’d finally asked for their help properly, hadn’t he? Surely it would be there this time.

            But it wasn’t. There was no hope in Jack Frost; the place it should have been still as empty and barren as before. It was like finding an outline in the dust on a wall where a picture should have hung, but now there wasn’t even a nail to hang it on. Just dust and too much blank.

            “Jack,” Aster said quietly, “you want our help, right?”

            “Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

            “And you don’t want to go back to Pitch, right?”

            “Yes.”

            “You want,” and he was calling to mind the other things Tooth had told him, now, the things about Jack having been found and hidden away by Pitch since the very beginning that made the muscles in his jaw tighten, “to be free.” Aster’s magic searched for the slightest trace of hope.

            “Yes.”

            Nothing. Not even a flicker. Jack Frost wanted without daring to hope.

            Aster flicked his gaze to the side, unsure how to respond. They were both quiet for some time, until the food was finished. Bunny put the empty juice jars back in the basket. “What were you wanting to do today, Jack?”

            “I don’t know,” Jack hedged. He hesitated, shooting a look at Aster from the corner of his eye, like he might find fault in his decision. “I was going to try flying around the Warren.”

          Bunny nodded. “Sounds good.” Jack visibly relaxed. “You’ve really taken to it, haven’t you? Flying, I mean.”

            “It feels right,” Jack agreed quietly, squeezing the staff.

            Bunny’s attention was drawn to it, curiosity bubbling on his tongue. “Why don’t you use it?”

            Jack startled. “My staff?”

            “Yeah.” Aster gestured at it. “You can use it to make snow, can’t you?”

            Jack took a moment to answer. “I can,” he admitted slowly.

            “Why don’t you?”

            Jack kept his chin down, like he was trying to huddle into himself. He stared at the ground, his grip on the staff white knuckled. “No. Never again.”

            Taken aback by the words, Aster’s ears lay flat to his skull before perking. His whiskers twitched as he read Jack’s body language, the anxiety in the line of his shoulders standing out like italicized text.

            “Are you,” he began, “afraid of it?”

            The shocked glance he gave Aster from the corner of his eye, pupils dilated and lashes lifted, answered that question better than words ever could.

            “Why?” It was only one word, but in the sudden tenseness of the atmosphere it had the weight of lead.

          Jack wouldn’t look at him. “You should know,” he replied. “You’re the one who pointed out I’m a murderer.”

            Aster’s gaze burned on the side of Jack’s head, and then, in a voice so awed and full of self-rumination Jack couldn’t help but look at him, said, “I had you pegged all wrong, didn’t I?”

            Jack stared at him. “I don’t understand.”

            Bunny made a noise that was half chuckle, half sheer disbelief. He scrubbed his cheek ruff, and looked Jack in the eye. “What really happened in ’68, Jack?”

            Jack shifted uncertainly. “You know what happened. I killed two kids.” ( _Janie and David_ , Jack’s mind murmured, the names carved into his heart so deep he’d never ever forget.)

            “All I saw was you and Pitch,” Aster clarified, “leaving the area. And because it was Pitch and there was a blizzard and I didn’t know you then I assumed.” The terror burning in Jack’s face made him all the more certain of what he was about to say. “But I think I was wrong.”

            “You weren’t.” Jack was suddenly scrambling to the edge of the boulder, as far away as he could get without actually leaving. “It was me. _I_ killed them. It was my fault.” One of Jack’s hands founds its way into his air, and Jack gripped his scalp as his lips twisted in remembered grief. “It was all my fault.”

            Bunny inched forward, concerned and wary of making Jack take off. He wouldn’t get this chance again. If Jack ran now, he wasn’t sure the boy would ever open up about the incident. “Please,” he implored, “tell me what happened.”

            Jack looked at Aster like someone whose words were clawing at their throat with knives, guilt baring his teeth and wetting his eyes like a wounded thing. He looked desperate.

            A keen came from Jack’s throat, setting Aster’s fur on end. He finally burst, “I just wanted to go _outside._ ”

            And with that admission, the rest of the words followed. By the time he was done, his throat was sore and his voice scratchy with tears and upset, and Aster was watching him with a calm sort of horror.

            “I never wanted to hurt them,” Jack finally finished, his voice wobbling. “And I’m _so sorry_ I couldn’t save them. I _tried,_ I did; I didn’t want them to die.”

            Jack ended with his face buried in his knees and his arms wrapped around his legs, hood pulled up to hide his head. From the shaking of his shoulders, Aster knew he was crying.

            “Jack.” He cautiously moved to Jack’s side, and placed a hand on his trembling back. “Jack.”

            Jack raised his head, his eyes red and puffy and his face a slick mess of tears. “What?”

            Eight months ago Aster wouldn’t have believed Jack Frost capable of the emotion he was seeing in him now. Of course, eight months ago he wouldn’t have believed Jack Frost to be innocent, either.

            “It was an accident,” Bunny soothed. “If anyone is to blame, it’s Pitch for making you create the storm in the first place, and then standing by without taking action.” His hands moved so that one was on each of Jack’s shoulders, and he turned the boy so that they were facing one another. He made sure he had Jack’s complete attention when he said, “It wasn’t your fault.”

            The next moment he had his arms full of Jack Frost.

            Aster floundered for a moment, unsure. Then he wrapped his arms around Jack’s back, loosely so Jack would be able to pull away should he wish, and ran his hand soothingly down Jack’s spine. Jack shoved his face into Bunny’s shoulder, and Aster could feel the warm wet of tears on his shoulder.

            He wondered if there was a piece of Jack that had been waiting for someone to say those words.

          When Jack was ready he pulled away, and turned his face self-consciously. “Sorry. Your fur’s all gross now.”

            That was true, but Aster didn’t mind it. He ruffled Jack’s hair, surprised when Jack not only accepted the touch, but leaned into it a bit. This had to have been the most physical contact anyone had had with Jack in the time he’d been with them. “It’s no problem.”

            Jack’s lips parted for a moment, and then he smiled.

            It was like someone had knocked the wind out of Aster. He hadn’t seen Jack smile like this. Compared to what he was seeing now, any previous grins were reduced to cheap tricks of the light. This smile stretched his cheeks so much it squinted his eyes (still shiny with unshed tears) and showcased his white teeth.

            _Gorgeous_ , Aster thought. Why had he never noticed before?

            “Thank you, Bunnymund,” Jack said.

            Aster smiled back. He helped Jack to his feet, and the boy picked up the staff he’d set aside when he’d launched himself into Bunny’s arms. “Just Bunny’s fine, Jackie.”

            Jack’s eyes widened, and he turned his head to the side. For a moment Aster thought he’d upset him, until he saw the frost tipping Jack’s ears in the semblance of a blush. Not upset, then, just embarrassed.

            Jack stepped away, readying his staff to take off into the Warren. “Thank you, Bunny,” he corrected.

            “You’re welcome.” He added, “And we’re going to help you. Trust us.”

            Jack stared at him for what felt like a long time, face neutral, before nodding slightly and bringing a tiny smile back with it. “Okay.”

            As he took off, Aster found himself floored. Because as Jack had left, Bunny’s magic had felt it. A seed, a spark, a glow. Warm and new and fragile.

            Jack Frost had found his hope.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            After that, it was like Jack had opened the floodgates. Words came to his tongue swifter than they ever had before, and he and Bunny spent as much time together as they did apart. This was companionship in a way Jack had never experience before, and he liked it.

            “Tooth says you don’t have any memories before Pitch,” Bunny mentioned one day.

            “I don’t,” Jack confirmed. “I woke up on the lake, and the Man in the Moon told me my name, and then Pitch found me. Before that…there’s nothing.”

            “How did he get you to trust him?” Bunny asked.

            “He knew my name, and said that the Man in the Moon had sent him to be my guardian.”

          Bunny’s face scrunched like he’d tasted something unpleasant. “He was lying. Manny and Pitch are enemies.”

            Jack nodded, accepting the truth he’d long since begun to suspect. “He lied about a lot of things.”

            Some days they spent hours in silence, sitting side by side and knitting, or Jack would listen to Bunny tell stories. To his surprise, sometimes Jack would tell his own.

            “I had a bird, once,” Jack shared, fondness in every word. “I named him Hop.”

            “What happened to him?”

            Jack didn’t say, but his silence was answer enough.

            Bunny only made the mistake of calling him beautiful once, while Jack lounged in the sunlight on a boulder next to his googie plants.

            “You’re beautiful,” he slipped, and was immediately embarrassed by his own words.

            The look Jack gave him was blank and dead. “Don’t call me that.”

            Bunny corrected himself, his own self-consciousness secondary in the face of his desire to rid that expression from Jack. “Gorgeous, then. Or handsome.”

            Jack’s cheeks flushed with frost, and he tucked his chin into his hoodie. “Thank you.”

            By the end of the month, Jack was overcome with an unexpected problem. He didn’t want to leave. He confessed as much the day before he was due to leave.

            “I kind of don’t want to go,” he said, unable to look Bunny in the eye as he did so.

            Bunny was quietly thoughtful for a moment. “Well, I don’t mind it, so I don’t see why you can’t.”

            Jack’s head jerked up. “But—the system—”

            “No one said it was permanent,” Bunny interrupted. “And none of us are gonna _make_ you do anything. If you don’t want to go, Jack, you don’t have to go. You can stay with me you want, I don’t mind. I’d even be glad,” he added, nose twitching shyly at the admittance. “But it’s your choice.”

            “My choice,” Jack repeated quietly. He smiled, the big, bright one that had been growing more and more frequent throughout his stay and that set Bunny’s heart thumping at odd rhythms. “I’d like to stay here, then.”

            Bunny shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the world, and gave a smile of his own. “So you will.”

            When Jack hugged him that time, Bunny was more prepared for it.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            North set aside the heavy tome, a sigh of frustration gusting from his lips. He sat back in his chair, and stroked his beard. A knock came at the door of his office.

            “Come in!” he called, and the door opened. Toothiana fluttered inside, a soothing smile already in place.

            “Hey,” she said. “Still doing research?”

            “I have looked and looked,” North entreated, “but still nothing. When the year is up, Pitch will surely find a way to take Jack back, and there are few who would try to stop him. Pitch is too powerful now, and his claim of Jack as his Consort is centuries strong and untested, even if Jack begins denying it now. And we can not prove his crimes against Jack on Jack’s word alone, or I would have him locked in the same prison that held General Winter during his madness.” He brought his hand down flat and heavy on the surface of the desk, a sign of his growing upset. “I do not know what to do, Toothy.”

            “There must be some way,” she implored.

            “If there is, it is not clear to me for now.” His brow was scrunched in distress.

            Tooth flew to his side and hovered, her dainty hand on his shoulder bearing the same comfort as a thick blanket and cup of cocoa. “Did you get Bunny’s message?”

            He nodded, a smile breaking through. “It is surprising, yes? That those two would be getting along so well.”

            She hummed agreement. They both sat in silence for a moment, thinking the problem through individually. Tooth bobbed agitatedly. “Surely there must be something that trumps a Consort claim.”

            North’s silence suddenly took on a thoughtful air. “Actually,” he murmured, “there _might_ be.”

            Tooth clasped her hands together, leaning closer. Relief brightened her features. “There is?”

            “Maybe,” North allowed. “I will have to do more research, but I have an idea.”

            She nodded. “So long as we have a place to start.”

            “Yes.” North grinned, spirits raised at the new development. “We do.”


	13. Sometimes when I close my eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was like pulling teeth but with more grunting and less anesthetic.
> 
> Also, real quick: I received some really amazing, heartful, wonderful reviews on the last chapter. And I want to say thank you. Thank you so much. It makes me so happy that you've enjoyed this story with me so far, and I hope you will continue to do so in the future. I appreciate every word you take the time to send me. I really do.

*          *          *          *          *

 

It is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing.

\--Marianne Moore, _A Grave_ in _Collected Poems,_ 1951

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Past:**

            “I need you to hide this for me.” Jack shoved the bag of his treasures in Rime’s arms.

            Rime blinked down at the bag, then glanced up at Jack from under his lashes. He had been growing more and more cautious of Jack’s behavior in the growing years. “You’re up to something,” he accused.

            Jack’s face never changed. “Am I?”

            “You’ve changed,” Rime elaborated. “For a while now.”

            Jack didn’t respond.

            “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’ve always liked the library, but every time I come now you’re in it, hidden in those dusty books. And your eyes—”

            “What about my eyes?” Jack questioned softly.

            Rime looked at him and wanted to say, “They’re dead.” But it was those very eyes that kept him from saying that. So instead he said, “They’re cold.” He had to bite the side of his tongue to keep from adding, “They’re like mine.”

            “Maybe that’s a good thing,” Jack proposed.

            Except it wasn’t, Rime knew, but wouldn’t let himself care enough to admit.

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Present:**

 

            “I don’t think this is a good idea,” Jack whispered as they circled the park. It was still early on a Saturday, and what few children were up were still indoors watching Saturday morning cartoons for now. But that wouldn’t last for long.

            “I think you’re being too cautious,” Bunny rebutted, glancing over his shoulder as he led them to a small playground within the Burgess park. He was careful not to hop too far ahead as Jack was walking slowly, dragging his feet with reluctance. “And why are you whispering?”

            Jack wasn’t too sure himself, but with the way his stomach felt like it was squeezing itself into a ball and bouncing around his intestines, whispering had seemed appropriate. “You said yourself, remember?” he reminded. “I shouldn’t be around children.”

            Bunny halted next to a merry-go-round, and spun around to give Jack a look. “That was before I knew, and I was wrong. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.” He rose up from his crouched hopping position, so that he stood full-height on two legs. He placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. “But haven’t you been around the kids already? Tooth told me you went with some of her fairies on collection detail when you last stayed with her.”

            Jack flinched. “That’s true,” he admitted. “But it was different. The children were all asleep.”

            Bunny looked at him for a long, quiet moment. Then, slowly, like someone who’s just finished a house of cards and is worried even breathing too hard will topple it over, he said, “You won’t hurt them, Jack.”

            Jack stared at the ground, and didn’t respond.

            Some of Bunny’s excitement wilted. “I know you’re nervous,” he continued. “And that’s okay. Really. But trust yourself a little. You would never hurt a child, I know that now.” What he did next surprised himself, and Jack. He cupped the other’s face, lifting it so Jack was looking up at him. Jack blinked, brushing his cheek with dark eyelashes. (And had Jack’s eyes always been that blue? Bunny wondered. Like winter itself had solidified in his irises?) “And trust me a little too. It’ll be okay.”

            He was surprised when Jack nodded. He was more surprised when Jack leaned into his touch, his skin cool against the pads of his hand. A tiny smile, soft and new, gentled the thin line of his pale lips. “Okay.”

             And maybe Bunny was a little quick to pull away after that. Because his heart shouldn’t have been beating like that. His first desire shouldn’t have been to pull Jack closer and nuzzle into his neck until he’d memorized every nuance of his scent. He shouldn’t be entertaining such thoughts. Not for a person he barely knew, and had just begun to understand. (But they were, he was, and that was something he’d have to puzzle out later.)

            “Jack,” he began, but was interrupted by the sound of approaching laughter. Which was probably a good thing, because he wasn’t sure what he’d been about to say.

            Jack’s eyes went wide, and he gripped his staff. He stepped back, and leaned against the swingset, his gaze going over Bunny’s shoulder to a group of coming children. There were seven of them, six appearing about the same age, and one younger blonde girl clinging to a brunet boy’s hand and dragging him forward. They were dressed in their winter gear, bundled up against the December chill.

            “I wish it had snowed more,” one of the kids, a black boy with his hair combed back in thick cornrows, said. He stomped the thin layer of snow on the ground disappointedly. “It doesn’t even stick right. Man, how are we supposed to have a snowball fight with this?”

            “We’ll figure it out, Claude,” a red-haired girl in a ski cap responded. She nudged him with her shoulder playfully.

            “Yeah, okay, Pippa.” He smiled and nudged her back.

            A red haired boy known as Monty paused, rubbing at his pinked nose. He squinted through his glasses, and pointed. “Uh, guys, is that…?”

            The younger blonde girl was the next to spot what Monty had noticed, and her eyes went wide. “ _Bunny!_ ” she squealed, dropping the brunet’s hand and running full tilt.

            “Sophie!” the brunet called, and ran after her. He froze upon laying eyes on Bunny, slack-jawed with awe. “No way.”

            “Jamie, Bunny!” Sophie shrieked with excitement, barreling into Bunny’s leg as he lowered himself into a comfortable crouch at her level.

            “Hello there, little sheila.” He poked her forehead.

            “No way,” Caleb, Claude’s twin brother, echoed Jamie.

            The children rushed forward all at once, crowding Bunny. Jack noticed a child he recognized, a brown haired girl with a strong jaw called Cupcake by friends, hanging back a bit with a nervous but excited expression. He remembered that she dreamed of unicorns.

            While Bunny fielded questions about what he was doing in Burgess out of season, with Christmas just around the corner, Jack’s stomach bubbled with nervous energy. They couldn’t see him, he knew. (But he wanted them too.)  Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t interact with them a bit. Just a little?

            Jack skipped around them to a more open area by the merry-go-round, and hesitantly poked at the magic he rarely used to work with his element. It rushed to meet him like it had been waiting for the moment. It unrolled itself like ribbon in his chest, felt like silk under his skin. This wasn’t how it had felt all those years ago when he’d used it. It had been forced and desperate then, like a beast trapped in a cage too small for its size from centuries of disuse. Now it was gentler, the desperation leaked away now that he was more practiced in using it in small ways.

            Jack crouched, and scooped up a handful of snow. It was pitiful stuff, Claude had been right about that. It flaked away in his hands, refusing to pack into a ball without supreme effort. It made for pathetic snowballs, much less anything else.

            Half-formed snowball made, he cupped it in his hands, staff resting in the crook of his arm, and blew on it, the action almost instinctive for what he intended to do. Magic smoothed up his throat and gusted from his lips, and when it touched the snowball it grew and grew and grew until a ball up to Jack’s knee had been made. It was heavy, and he dropped it on the ground with little fuss. He repeated the process, making two more appropriately sized balls and setting them in place atop the first. He dug through the layer of snow to the mulch that lined the ground around the merry-go-round, picking several dark pieces. He put three in a column on the front of the middle ball, and used the rest to make a face on the top. The final result was a rather plain, armless snowman.

            “ _Woah!_ ”

            Jack turned around at the exclamation, and the brunet boy was pointing at the snowman.

            “What is it, Jamie?” Pippa turned as well, and gasped. “Where did that snowman come from?”

            “Snowman?” One by the one the children turned to look, then began to crowd around it.

            “Did you make this?” Jamie asked Bunny, fists clenched in front of his chest and bouncing with energy.

            “No, not me ankle biter.” Bunny shook his head, and shot Jack a surprised but genuine look of happiness. (And Jack smiled back. It wasn’t much, in the grand scheme of things, that he did it. It was that Jack now possessed the will _to_ _do_ _it_ that mattered.)

            Jamie frowned, and began looking the snowman over thoughtfully. Jack’s magic curled in his chest, wanting to be used. And Jack, encouraged by the children’s happiness, decided to do so.

            He moved so that he was a little apart from the children. He ran his hand over the grooves of his staff, licking his lips nervously. When he looked, Bunny was entertaining the kids, but also taking chances to glance over and see what Jack was doing. The subtle concern, and the trust he showed in not interfering, made Jack’s stomach twist in Celtic knots. Even when Jack raised the staff to the sky, he merely continued to watch curiously.

            Slowly, little by little, Jack funneled his magic into the staff, to the air. He cut himself off rather quickly, nervous about making snow again after the last time, but the look on the kids’ faces when snow began to fall made it worth it.

            “But, there aren’t any clouds!” Monty exclaimed, reaching for a flake and catching it on his fingertip before it melted away.

            Jamie’s mouth was open in awe, his eyes scanning the sky furiously for the source of the snow. A small clump drifted down, down, down, and landed on the very tip of his nose. He blinked, previous thoughtfulness returning as it sparked a memory.

            “Jack Frost,” he murmured.

            Jack froze. “You…you said my name,” he addressed Jamie’s back.

            “Who’s that?” Caleb asked.

            “He’s someone my mom told me about,” Jamie explained distractedly.

            “I remember that,” Pippa added. “That was last Easter, right?”

            Jamie nodded distantly. “He nips at your nose, and makes the frost on windows.”

            “You know about that?” he whispered, recalling the bright white frost he used to draw in on Pitch’s cold stone floors.

            “But is he real?” Cupcake wondered.

            Jamie considered the appearing snowman, and the snow from clear skies, and thought those sure seemed like things Jack Frost could do, and with that simple idea in mind answered, “I think so.”

            Jack breathed in sharply.

            Jamie blinked at the sound from behind him, turned around, and stared. “Jack Frost?”

            “He said it again,” Jack gasped, and turned shocked eyes on Bunny. “Bunny, he said my name again!”

            A slight tug on the front of his hoodie made him look down, and Jamie Bennett stared up at him, eyes bright with joy. “Jack Frost!”

            And in that instant, a missing piece of Jack Frost slotted into place as naturally and quickly as blinking.

            Jack flashed a smile as bright as sunlight on fresh snow. “That’s me!”

            “Jack Frost?” It wasn’t clear which of the children had spoken, but they all were directing their attention that way now. And each one, their own belief bolstered by Jamie’s unwavering certainty and the mysterious events previous, were able to see him.

            “Woah! You’re different than I imagined.” Claude cocked his head to the side, but seemed no less happy to see him.

            “What’s that big stick for?” Monty peered at him through his glasses.

            “Did you really make it snow?”

            Question upon question fired from the kids until they were a blur of excited and jumbled words, each of the children coming to crow around him.

            Jack, overwhelmed and nervous and filled with sudden burning joy, tipped his head back, and laughed a laugh that had not passed his lips in three hundred years. “Woah now, one at a time!” he chided playfully. “I’ll answer all of your questions, but first…” Jack swirled his finger in the air, and he didn’t even think twice about the magic he used as a snowball formed and dropped into his hand.  He smirked rakishly, eyes glimmering. “Who wants to have some fun?”

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            When they returned to the Warren hours later, Bunny was still reeling from the change that had overcome Jack in that short period of time. I that small handful of moments he’d watched Jack Frost become what he’d only seen hints of before. Curiosity, playfulness, boundless energy that suited Jack more than his death-like stillness ever would. Laughter bubbled from his throat as if it was the only sound he knew how to make; smiles fit his face like they were tailor made.

            It was Jack Frost, as Bunny suspected he’d always been meant to be. Carefree. Light. Joyful. Seeing Jack with the kids made him regret that he hadn’t spent more time with them before now.

            But it had been short lived. Mere minutes after leaving Bunny had mournfully watched the smile fade away, and the laughter lock itself in his chest. The fire that had lit in Jack had died down, and Bunny was left with nothing but the embers to remember it by.

            It was no surprise that Bunny was overcome with the powerful determination to see it restored, permanently.

            But he didn’t have much time to think on that before North arrived.

            “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for Christmas?” was the first thing Bunny asked after letting the bigger man into his home. Jack peeked around the doorframe into kitchen, and entered fully when North waved him in companionably. Jack gave a tiny smile in greeting, and North’s eyes latched onto it like a hawk, not as used to seeing such a thing as Bunny was.

            “This is true,” North replied in answer to Bunny’s question. “But I did some research, and I think we may have a solution.”

            “You do?” Jack leaned forward in the seat he’d taken at the table with them.

            North nodded, his eyes glinting with something sharper than a mere thoughtfulness; this was cold intelligence. “Have you ever heard of a Soul Bond?”

            Jack shook his head, but Bunny went stiff in his seat. “That’s serious stuff, North.”

            Jack looked between them. “What’s a Soul Bond?”

            “Think marriage,” Bunny explained, “but magical and far more permanent.”

            Confusion broke the calm façade of Jack’s face. “Marriage?”

            “A Soul Bond trumps a Consort claim a million times over,” North went on.

            “So does a Mating Bond,” Bunny pointed out, “and it isn’t taken nearly so serious. Soul Bonds are practically sacred.”

            “But a Mating Bond would require a more… _physical_ relationship. Something I don’t think Jack would wish to do with anyone he hasn’t known very long.”

            They both looked to Jack, who had paled slightly. He shook his head. No, no he wasn’t near ready for a sexual relationship. Not that the idea wasn’t unappealing, someday, with the right partner, and when he thought he’d be able to without closing his eyes and seeing Pitch’s face behind his eyelids.

            “But a Soul Bond?” Bunny redirected incredulously. “Who do you plan to match him up with for something so serious, so soon?”

            North smiled, like he’d been waiting for the question. “You, of course.”

            “ _Me?_ ” Bunny couldn’t deny the quick flutter in his chest before reality set in once more. “But everyone knows Jack and I have barely known each other. The moment we announce it, Pitch will contest it in an _instant—_ ” He paused as a slow smile pulled at North’s cheeks, his eyes narrowing with realization and hinted respect. “You sneaky little _shite_.”

            “What?” Jack swiveled his gaze between them. “What is it?”

            “Of course Pitch will contest it, and that’s exactly what this bugger _wants_ to happen.” Bunny explained.

            “What will happen if he contests it?” Jack asked.

            “A council,” North answered. “Of the oldest, most powerful spirits in this world.”

            “Because Soul Bonds are so serious, it’s common practice to announce intent to form one before they’re actually made. If anyone contests them on suspicion of coercion or abuse then a council is held to determine the validity of the claims, and if the Bond will be allowed to take place,” Bunny added. “And if Pitch does so, then he will have to face them with us to prove his points.”

            “And we can use the opportunity instead to out Pitch and his abuses to the council.” North leaned forward, hands spread on the table. “Rather than just having your word against his when the Blood Rite expires, we can show your honesty and his deceit.”

            Jack’s brow scrunched. “How?”

            “One of the oldest, best spirits to determine how strong someone’s hold is on another’s heart is on the council.”

            “Who?”

            North’s smile was sly. “Cupid.”

            “Wait.” Jack rubbed his forehead. “Why couldn’t we have just gotten him in the first place, if we need proof of my word?”

            “Cupid never leaves Olympus these days,” Bunny said, rolling his eyes. “The only time you can get him to come topside is for Soul Bonds, and we can’t just go to him in Olympus either. The place is impossible to get into without an invitation, and since no one in it has left in over a thousand years…”

            Jack nodded. “I think I get the picture.”

            “Either way,” North rushed in, “we get him and other powerful old spirits together in one place with us and Pitch, prove his guilt and crimes, and see him punished for them. He wouldn’t stand a chance of escaping from all of us.”

            “Won’t he suspect something?” Jack murmured.

            They all considered it. “Would he question his hold on you?” Bunny asked seriously.

            Jack took a moment to think it over. As far as Pitch was concerned, Jack was dependent on him. He had taken the years and used them to carve himself into Jack’s very bones. Even with Jack’s act of rebellion, he would continue to believe that he was the biggest presence in Jack’s life, the factor by which Jack based all of his decisions. And maybe on some level that was still true. But with every moment he was away from Pitch that was less and less the case, as every day Jack was allowed to be free he carved another piece of Pitch’s rot from his mind, until one day it would be nothing but scar tissue.

            But Pitch was too sure of himself, too certain of his position with Jack, to think Jack would stand against him—to think Jack _could_ stand against him, and win.

            No, Pitch would come. And he would come confident.

            But he would not come ignorant. He would be cautious.

            Jack finally answered, “No.”

            “Well then,” Bunny leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, “I think we’ve got a plan.”

            “What will happen to Pitch if we prove his guilt?” Jack probed cautiously.

            “It will depend on the level of his offenses we can prove,” North informed. “At least, we should be able to get an order his immediate separation from you, and promise of retribution should he approach or try to harm you.”

            “And at most?”

            “At most, he will be locked away in the same prison we kept General Winter during his centuries of insanity, and won’t be let out for a very long time.”

           

*          *          *          *          *

 

            The announcement of intent to Soul Bond was made by North after Christmas on behalf of the ‘happy couple.’ While many were surprised by the development of such a relationship after so short a time, there was only one person that challenged it, and that was Pitch.

            Two weeks after the new year began, a summons was sent to Bunny and the other Guardians and Jack. They were expected to face a council in the halls of Mount Olympus itself to determine the legitimacy of the Soul Bond on the last day of March, just days before the Blood Rite’s protection would fade.

            Time was running out, like a distant door at the end of a long footpath. And when it did, it would depend on Jack whether or not the door was capable of being opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is confused: Basically, it's Jack's word against Pitch's. The Guardians believe him and what they know of his abuses, but they've also had months to get to know him. To the rest of the world, Pitch is the one who is well-known and has a reputation, and his word is more likely to be believed than Jack's. They need the council and Cupid so that they can pull a few tricks and get it proven beyond a doubt to a group of powerful individuals that Pitch is the bad guy here. 
> 
> Sorry if any of it was confusing, this chapter gave me trouble to write clearly. It should become more clear once we're in the thick of it.


	14. But 'til then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait everyone! This one was super hard to get started, and I didn't want to force it because of how important this chapter is. But once I got into the thick of it it came a whooooole lot easier.

*          *          *          *          *

 

The secret of happiness is freedom, and the secret of freedom, courage.

\--Thucydides, funeral speech for Pericles, 429 B.C., in _The History of the Peloponnesian War,_ c. 400 B.C.

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Past:**

            “What do you _need_ , Jack?” Rime finally questioned, fed up with Jack’s hesitance.

            Jack blinked at him. “How did you know I wanted something?”

            Rime raised a brow, vaguely annoyed. “You’ve been tiptoeing around me since I got here. What do you need?” he repeated.

            Jack stared at the ground for a long moment, then back up at Rime. “I need your help.”

            “Oh?” Rime leaned against the wall by the library’s fireplace. “How so?”

            “Pitch just told me he’s going to allow me to attend the gathering at the Pole, a reward for my good behavior.”

            Rime’s eyes lit up knowingly. “Ah, your mysterious plan. What do you need me for?”

            “I need you to sneak in here after we leave, and find my staff. Then bring it to me at the Pole.”

            Rime whistled. “That’s a tall order, Jack. I should at least get rewarded for my efforts.”

            Jack’s eyes, if possible, became flatter. “What do you want?”

            Rime was quiet. He stepped forward to where Jack sat, the flickers of light dancing on his skin like fireflies chasing each other. Rime stared at him, and brought a finger up to trace Jack’s bottom lip. “This. I want this.”

            “You would take my first kiss?” Jack asked incredulously. “The last thing _he_ has not?”

            “Yes.”

            Jack smacked his hand away. “That’s cruel.”

            Rime backed up, smiling. In all the time Jack had known him, it was the falsest smile he had ever seen Rime make. “I’m a cruel person.”

            No, Jack thought. Not really. He wasn’t as cruel as he was selfish. Too selfish to risk his own heart, and too selfish to leave Jack’s untouched.

            Jack closed his eyes, and when he opened them it was with an air of resignation. “Alright. Do this for me, and you’ll get it.”

            Rime smirked, and bowed. “As you wish.”

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Present:**

 

            “You know…we don’t have to actually Soul Bond. The claim is just to get things in motion and put Pitch in a position where we can prove his guilt. As soon as it’s over, we can back out.”

            Jack looked down from his branch to Bunny on the ground below. “I know that.”

            “Then why’re you hiding in trees, Jackie?” Bunny thumped the base of the tree with his foot for emphasis.

            Jack closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree. “Bunny, who am I?”

            Bunny looked uncertain as to whether or not that was a trick question. “You’re Jack Frost.”

            Jack sighed, and was almost awed at the revelation that a year ago the answer would have included, ‘Consort of the Nightmare King’ in some form or another. Now, it was just a name. His name. “And, what do you know about me?”

            Bunny sensed the serious path the questions were taking, and jumped into the tree, making his way to a thick branch on Jack’s right that was a little higher, but nearly level with the one Jack sat on. Once he’d settled, he answered, “Lots of things.”

            “Like what?”

            “Well,” he began. What was the first thing to come to mind when he thought of Jack Frost? “You love kids.”

            Jack relaxed, some of his invisible tension eased. “What else?”

            “You’re quiet, but I think you’re happier when you’re loud.” Jack hummed, like it was something he hadn’t considered, while Bunny continued. “You’re good at knitting, and carving. You like climbing trees.” He paused. “You’ve…been mistreated for a long time.”

            “Abused,” Jack filled in. “I was abused.” He barely turned his head in Bunny’s direction. “I can finally say it.”

            Bunny looked away for a moment. “You’re strong.”

            “Terrified.” He closed his eyes. “I’m scared. I’ve never told anyone about the things that happened with Pitch. But I will if I have to. Bunny,” his lashes fluttered open, something nervous and hopeful there, “promise that, no matter what you hear...there are still things you don’t know about me. Don’t hate me when you find out.”

            “I promise,” Bunny swore.

            They were both quiet for a while, until Bunny asked, “Why did you agree to do it with me? We could have gotten anyone to be your Soul Bond stand in. Sandy, Tooth…”

            For a long time it seemed Jack wouldn’t answer, until he smiled quietly. “Because I trust you.”

            Bunny took those words and locked them away somewhere precious. “Thank you.” He relaxed on the branch as Jack did. “Don’t you worry. Worst comes to worst, we’ll get Cupid to take a look in your heart and prove Pitch has no place in it.”

            Jack didn’t reply, because he didn’t have the heart to tell him he wasn’t sure that was true.

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Mount Olympus was like no place Jack had ever dreamed. Columns lined the walkways, and lavish purple drapes framed every window and hung between every pillar. Marble statues littered the gardens that seemed to be around every corner. Jack would have loved to explore, except their guide kept them firmly on a path to a grand mead hall that had been emptied of all but one long table.

            “You’re the first to arrive,” the guide mentioned, smiling teeth that were white as pearls and only enhanced his loveliness. His hair bounced in large corkscrew curls the color of polished copper, his milky skin smooth and lips plump. He wore little more than a strip of white cloth around his hips, showcasing the shape of his hips. Jack had little trouble noting that he was gorgeous. “Please, make yourself comfortable as you wait.”

            “Thank you.” Jack’s smile was polite.

            The guide hummed. “You are welcome.”

            Jack watched him go as the Guardians seated themselves on one of the long benches a few meters across from the table. “Who was that?”

            “Ganymede, cup-bearer of the gods.” Bunny answered, beckoning Jack over. “Not that he does much of that anymore.”

            “Why not?”

            “Remember how none of the gods leave Olympus?”

            “Yes.”

            “Well,” Bunny drummed his fingers, and it was made apparent that he was only expounding so much as a means of distraction in the face of his nervousness, “there’s a bit more to it than them simply not wanting to. They’re asleep. Well, most of them. Have been for centuries. They decided the world was changing too much for their liking and thought sleeping for thousands of years might make it go away.”

            “How would sleeping solve that? Why would anyone want to sleep that long?”

            “Because time has a way of making things feel more distant than they actually are.” It sounded like he was speaking from experience.

            Jack thought for a moment. “It must be lonely for Ganymede.”

            “Probably. Zeus is his lover, after all, and he was the first one to go to sleep.”

            There was something very sad about that that Jack had trouble finding words for. He had just decided to let the subject drop when the door opened, and Ganymede entered, looking vaguely uncomfortable.

            “Pitch Black has arrived,” he said, stepping to the right and holding the door after.

            And for a moment, when Pitch entered the room, it was like nothing had changed. He was wearing his usual clothes, his arms clasped loosely behind his back like always, and the way he looked at Jack…

            It was like they’d never parted. Like Jack was still in the darkness underground and always afraid and so very, very _lonely_ while being just one sharp twist from broken—

            And then there was a hand on his shoulder. He glanced right, and Sandy’s small fingers gripped his hoodie gently, comfortingly. The Sandman smiled.

            When Jack looked again, it was with a clearer mind. Pitch was the same. But Jack Frost was _not._

            “Hello Jackson,” Pitch said.

            “Pitch.” Jack gripped his staff, and Pitch’s eyes tracked the movement. He frowned gently.

            “You’re using it,” he noted.

            “I am.”  Jack drew himself up, refusing to back down. “I’m not  _afraid_ of it anymore.”

            Pitch scanned him, eyes flashing as he caught the undertone of Jack’s words. ( _I’m not afraid of_ you _anymore.)_ “Well,” he drawled. “We shall see.”

            “If you all are ready,” Ganymede broke in, and Pitch moved to stand far to the right of Jack and his group, while still being in front of the long table. He did not sit on the provided bench. “The council is prepared to begin.”

            Jack sat on the bench with the Guardians flanking either side, Bunny and  North to his left, Tooth and Sandy to his right. He felt Bunny’s hand on his back, and when he peeked Bunny’s eyes were on him, green lit with strength and support.

            It was that support that made Jack breath in, and nod. “We’re ready.”

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            The council consisted of three old and powerful spirits, who, above anything else, were neutral beings. Cupid was the first. He led the group in and was the first seated, in the very middle of the table. Jack, who had never seen Cupid, would have mistaken him if not for the trademark wings and bow and quiver. This was because Cupid had long ago chosen to carry the form of a child.

            The second member of the council was a fae known as Puck. To humans, Puck was the trickster servant of Oberon, King of the Fairies. This was true—but only because Puck felt he had nothing better to do. He had found that sticking close to the drama of the fairy court was amusing enough to keep his attention, and thus had not moved on, though he was powerful enough to do so whenever he wanted.

            The final member of the council was Baba Yaga. Jack was nearly surprised to see her. There were many who forgot she was a neutral figure, with a bit of darker tendencies. She came in with her sharp eyes and glinting iron teeth, and when she looked at Jack it made him shiver.

            She sat by Cupid to Jack’s left, with Puck taking up the seat on the right at the long table. Jack, after having a run-down of the events drilled into him by the Guardians, knew what to expect next.

            “We are here,” Cupid began, his voice the high pitch of pre-adolescence and out of place in such a serious gathering, “to hear the claims of The Nightmare King Pitch Black against the Soul Bonding of Jack Frost and E. Aster Bunnymund. Shall we begin?”

            Pitch stepped forward. “We shall.” Wasting no time, he gestured at Jack and the Guardians. “My Consort has been coerced away from me.”

            Jack stiffened, and Tooth nudged his shoulder comfortingly.

            “How so?” Cupid asked.

            “As anyone knows, Jack Frost has been my Consort for decades, and we’ve only been apart this past year. How is that that in a year his loyalty can be so swayed, if not for coercion?”

            “Is this true, Jack Frost?” Cupid addressed him.

            “No!” Jack immediately denied. “I mean, that I’ve been his Consort is true, but no one has tried to coerce me.” Pitch gave a look of utmost pity, and moved to speak again, but Jack interrupted, “And I am no longer his Consort.”

            Pitch’s expression froze on his face, his eyes darting sharply to Jack. But he recovered quickly enough. “Do you see how they turn him against me? After decades of partnership, _centuries_ of trust. Yet after one year with the _Guardians_ ,” Pitch spat the word, “I find my one true bond in this world turned against me. You can not say that it isn’t strange.”

            Puck seemed to absently nod, while Cupid looked thoughtful. Baba Yaga watched Jack.

            “It is odd,” Cupid admitted. He looked to Jack and the Guardians. “Do you have anything to say to this?”

            Bunny stood up. “We do. A year ago Jack made a Blood Rite of Protection just to get _away_ from Pitch. Why would someone with as much of a ‘bond’ and ‘loyalty’ as Pitch claims seek protection from that very person?” He crossed his arms, anger coiling in his features. “Pitch Black has done nothing but abuse and threaten Jack’s safety since they met.”

            “Abuse?” Baba Yaga prodded. “Those are serious charges.”

            “He kept me locked away.” Jack stood now, trying to appear strong at Bunny’s side.

            Cupid’s demeanor hardened. “Is that so?” Imprisoning a spirit against their will was a high-level offense in the magical world, one Pitch could definitely be punished for.

            “I _provided_ for you,” Pitch cut in. “Did I not give you a place to sleep, food to eat, companionship and items to amuse you? I even gave you those carving tools you wished for, to entertain yourself.” He turned to the council beseechingly. “He was so young when I met him, with no idea how our world worked and would have been a danger to himself and others had I not kept him under lock and key. I believe Easter of 1968 is enough proof of that.”

            Jack felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. “That wasn’t my fault!” he shouted. “You _stood_ there, and you _watched_ and never helped—!”

            “What could I have done?” Pitch held a hand to his chest, as though the accusations hurt. “They believed in me as much as they believed in _you_.” He stepped forward, as far as the still active Blood Rite would let him. “It was _your_ storm, Jack. Your power. _You_ are the one who killed them.”

            Jack felt himself begin to shake, and Bunny rapidly stepped between them. “ _Back off.”_

Pitch gave him a condescending glance, but did so.

            “All of your denials aside,” Bunny said in a low undertone, “it remains that Jack _did_ use the Blood Rite, and he _did_ find you a threat for it to have worked.”

            “About that.” Pitch reached a hand into his robes and when he pulled it out a pair of teardrop gem earrings dangled from his fingers. “I acquired these from a recent intruder, a winter sprite, who I discovered had been breaking into my home for quite some time. He had been poisoning my Consort’s mind against me for many years, and made Jack _believe_ I was a threat to him, allowing the Blood Rite to work when it did.” He let that sink in for a moment.

            “Why would he break in once more after Jack had left?” Cupid wondered.

            “He sought a memento of Jack,” Pitch explained. “Of course, after learning all of this I dealt with him properly as an intruder.” There was no misunderstanding what he meant by that. Pitch had killed him.

            Jack’s eyes were locked on the earrings, his stomach lurching because _he knew them._ He’d seen them countless times over lonely years, hanging from the lobes of a sprite too vain, too selfish, too cruel, and yet just enough kind to have earned himself a bitter spot in Jack’s turbulent heart. “Rime,” he breathed.

            “Oh.” Pitch tilted his head, and tucked the earrings away again. “Was that his name?”

            In that moment Jack understood what it was like to wish death on another person. It was a horrible feeling, disgusting and twisted, and Jack felt it for Pitch. The fact that he now knew what such a feeling was like at all made him hate it all the more.

            “So as you can see,” Pitch added finally, “the Blood Rite that these coercers site so frequently may not be as legitimate after all.”

            Jack watched the faces of the council, and while Baba Yaga appeared unmoved, it was apparent that in all of their talking Pitch had managed to cast doubt on Jack’s word to Puck and Cupid. At this rate, they would achieve nothing.

            “That’s a load of dung and _you know it!_ ” Bunny growled, taking a threatening step forward.

            “Is it?” Pitch stared him down. “I suppose in the end there is only one way to really settle this. Cupid,” he looked to the councilor, “I believe you specialize in seeing the holds on the hearts of others?”

            “I do.” Cupid stood.

            This was it. Jack’s skin prickled with unease. The rest of the council might as well have been empty words for all that it came down to this moment.

            “I will look into the heart of Jack Frost.” Cupid circled the table. “And should your presence be greater, Pitch Black, we will favor you for the truth. _But_ ,” a look of warning, odd on the face of such youth, was directed at him, “if it is not, and therefore coercion has _not_ been used on this boy, it will prove you a liar and guilty of the abuses brought up here today—including the centuries long imprisonment of an unwilling spirit, and you _will_ be punished appropriately.”

            Jack looked down into Cupid’s face, aware of the nervous tension in the air around him from the others in the room. That childish face smiled kindly at him. “Don’t worry, it will not hurt.”

            Cupid placed a small hand on Jack’s chest. What happened next was largely indescribable for Jack, but the closest he could come to a description of what it felt like to have Cupid probe his heart was of something very silky threading its way into his core just to expand and drape itself over all of the important bits.

            “Well,” Cupid said thoughtfully, “your heart is quite divided. There are pieces given to a few different people. A significant piece, though still much smaller than I’d expect of someone hoping to enter into a Soul Bond,” he sounded vaguely suspicious, “is directed at E. Aster Bunnymund.”

            Bunny exhaled gustily, and Jack felt himself blush the tiniest bit at having his unstated crush made so apparent.

            “As for Pitch Black…,” Cupid trailed.

            Jack hoped feverishly that he had ridded himself of enough of Pitch that his hold would not win. That the year spent away had not been in vain.

            Jack looked over Cupid’s head at Pitch, and saw nothing but confidence. Because if there was one thing Pitch would never question, it was his hold over Jack.

            (And he was right.)

            “Pitch Black’s presence is still greater,” Cupid finished. He frowned, as though even he was unsatisfied with the outcome for some reason. “The Soul Bond will not be allowed to take place, and the newly mentioned allegations against Pitch Black will be dropped.”

            It was over. Jack stared at Cupid’s hand on his chest as dread inked its way into his veins. He didn’t have to look at Pitch to know the smile that would be lurking there. He could hear the protests of the Guardians dimly, the echoes of the world outside his mind that he was currently unable to comprehend. Pitch had won, and in mere days he would come for Jack. The Guardians would only be able to protect him for so long, and Jack would have to run and run and run and never stop if he wanted to remain free.

            Jack Frost did not want to live his life running.

            Just as Cupid’s hand began to draw away, Jack placed his over it and kept it on his chest. “He raped me.”

            In an instant the room became eerily silent. Cupid was still as the marble statues outside, his gaze far older and darker than the childish face it came from. “What?” His voice was as chilly as the arctic tundra.

            “Lies!” Pitch gestured emphatically. “When did I ever force you?”

            “Maybe you didn’t,” Jack admitted, “not in the way most would think. I may not have pushed you away, but I _never_ pulled you close. You didn’t have to force me because you had me so afraid and convinced and that pleasing you was the most important thing I could do that I laid there and let you do it. You _never_ asked, all you did was _take_.”

            Jack dropped his staff so he could hold Cupid’s hand to his chest tighter, with both hands. “I beg you. Please, if you can, look closer. Because whatever hold he has on me is not something that I want. Whatever _piece_ he has is not by my choice.”

            Cupid did not speak, but Jack felt the silky thread slip inside once more. He closed his eyes, and made up for centuries without hope by doing so as much as he could in that moment. He hoped that Cupid would find what Jack knew was there. He hoped he would look at Pitch’s presence in Jack’s heart and Bunny’s and would see the difference. He hoped he would see that Pitch’s hold was not love, was never love—nothing but a monopoly born of fear turned to hate.

            (And it worked.)

            Cupid withdrew his hand, the silkiness fading with it, and Jack’s hands went lax at his side. The winged child turned with deliberate slowness, anger burning in his visage as he faced Pitch. “You,” Cupid hissed, “have violated the sanctity of not only this boy’s body, but his heart. This, atop the crimes already brought to light, will not go unpunished. I trust my fellow councilors agree?”

            Puck, who cared for very little but valued his freedom above all else, nodded. Baba Yaga smiled with her glinting iron teeth and nodded as well.

            Pitch, unexpectedly outnumbered as the Guardians readied themselves for battle and Cupid with them, proved himself for the coward he really was and melted into a shadow, fleeing the hall.

            “That ratbag’s getting away!” Bunny burst for the door after the shadow, but Cupid’s voice halted him.

           “He won’t get far.” Cupid’s smile was a sinister little thing. “While it’s impossible to get in without invitation, it’s also impossible to _leave_ without a guide to let you out. Isn’t that right, Ganymede?”

            The door opened, and Ganymede entered with a smile. “Of course.”

            “The wards surrounding this place will catch him the moment he tries to exit Mount Olympus,” Cupid spoke with satisfaction.

            Baba Yaga began to laugh. “It will be nice to have him out of the picture once more. His rampant nightmares have kept the Russian smell out of my forests long enough, too scared to enter at night.”

            Jack, half dazed and half numb, blinked at her. “You won’t hurt any of them, right?”

            She smiled at him, her dark eyes gleaming. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

            North shifted on his feet. “Baba Yaga—”

            “Ah yes,” she sniffed the air heavily, “you have such a _nice_ Russian smell about you. Come closer, let me taste it.”

            While North dealt with Baba Yaga, Tooth half weirded out and half amused hovering at his side, Jack returned to staring at the floor. Sandy held his hand, his tiny fingers more comfort than Jack expected.

            “For now,” Cupid directed his attention to Jack, “why don’t you talk to me for a moment, Jack? I want you to tell me everything you can of Pitch and his abuses, so he may be punished appropriately.”

            Jack nodded carefully, some of the numbness beginning to fade. Sandy let go of his hand to pat his forearm instead.

            Cupid hummed, and returned to the long table. “Whenever you are ready.”

            Jack swallowed, and made to come forward, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned, and Bunny held out his staff. “You dropped this, mate.”

            Jack accepted it stiffly, and as he stared down at it it was like everything came into startling crystal clear clarity all at once. His breaths became uneven, his grip white-knuckled on the staff. He looked up at Bunny, disbelief and wonder coloring his words. “I’m free?”

            The chatter around them paused, and in a moment the Guardians had gathered in front of him. They were all smiling.

            “You’re free, Jack,” Tooth whispered.

            And Jack didn’t know whether to laugh or sob so he did both, then threw himself onto Bunny’s chest. Bunny held him close, the other three moving in as well, with North’s massive arms wrapped almost all around them.

            Jack buried his face in Bunny’s shoulder, warm and content and very nearly complete.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's only one chapter left. *watches hand tap keyboard* I'm...not sure how to feel about that just yet.


	15. Hello, hello

*          *          *          *          *

 

There is no real ending. It’s just the place where you stop the story.

― Frank Herbert, in an interview February 3, 1969

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Present:**

            They were shown off Mount Olympus by Cupid and Ganymede. They’d spent a lot of time talking about Jack’s life when he was with Pitch, and the entire experience left him drained. After the discussion, Cupid had given him a word of advice.

            “While it’s true that Bunymund holds a piece of your heart for himself,” he said, “I’d recommend holding off on anything so serious as Soul Bonding. Though,” he raised his brows, “I’m beginning to think that might have never been your intention at all.”

            Jack looked away in chagrin, but he and Bunny agreed.

            Before they left, Jack had gotten a moment to speak with Ganymede.

            “Do you ever wish you’d gone to sleep with them?” he asked, aware of his own tactlessness, but too curious to curb his tongue. “Zeus is your lover, right?”

            Ganymede blinked pretty eyes at him, and chuckled softly. “I used to,” he admitted. “But…it has been many years, and the offer was never made in the first place. And in time, things have changed.”

            It wasn’t until they were leaving, Cupid and Ganymede watching them go, that Jack heard their hushed conversation and understood what that meant.

            “Are you going to change out of that form anytime soon? While as a child you are cute, I feel it right to hold you at your true size tonight.”

            Cupid chuckled. “Of course, love. Anything for you.”

            Ah. So, perhaps not Zeus’ lover after all. Not anymore, at any rate. A glance at Bunny’s face revealed similar thoughts.

            They rode from Mount Olympus in North’s sleigh, with Jack and Bunny in the back with Sandy between them. Bunny clutched the side with claws extended, but the gold seatbelt Sandy made for him helped keep his panic to manageable levels.

            Jack found himself watching the landscape pass by below them, a strange gut feeling telling him it shouldn’t have been so easy. There should have…have been more to lose. In a weird way, it almost felt like his final encounter with Pitch should have cost him more. Should have required some sort of sacrifice. Like he should have lost, or nearly lost, something precious to him. (In that moment, he had the strangest longing to see Baby Tooth.)

            But soon enough the feeling passed. Just because his life had been a series of uphill battles to that point didn’t mean he had to fight one when he reached the top. If anything, he admitted, revealing what Pitch had done to him had been a small war in itself.

            Cutting through the genial chatter in the sleigh, Jack asked without looking at any of them, “You aren’t disgusted?”

            They didn’t have to ask to know what he was talking about. Tooth stopped midsentence to answer, “Never.” She turned in her seat, and placed a light hand on his knee. (And Jack let her do it.) “No matter what happened in the past, you are still the Jack we’ve come to know—the Jack we’ve come to care for. Nothing will change that.”

            “What Pitch did was disgusting,” North said, voice hard. “And _not_ your fault.”

            Sandy nodded along with them, his small hand reassuring on Jack’s sleeve.

            Jack glanced down at him and smiled, then turned his eyes to Bunny. “Bunny?”

            Bunny stared straight ahead, his eyes narrowed and jaw tight. When he spoke it was tense, the low rumble of a growl in his words. “If anything, it makes me want to kill him more. But no,” he finally looked at Jack, “you aren’t disgusting. Not at all.”

            Sandy’s gaze shot back and forth between them, and slowly moved so that Bunny could slide down the seat to the middle—to Jack’s side. He took Bunny’s previous seat, and pointedly pretended to give them privacy. Toothiana retracted her hand, and turned to face forward in her seat with a tiny grin. North shot a look at her from the corner of his eyes, expression knowing.

            Jack looked away to hide his smile. “So…eternity in General Winter’s cage, huh?”

            “It’s the least that ratbag deserves,” Bunny said. He slid his hand atop Jack’s on the bench. Jack turned his over so that their fingers could weave together properly. He squeezed, and Bunny squeezed back.

            With the prospect of his new freedom laid out before him, it hurt to think he’d have to let go.

 

*          *          *          *          *

**“** When are you going?”

            Jack tensed, his shoulder muscles tight with shock. Then he relaxed, and closed his eyes. He heard Bunny sit on the grass next to him. For a moment they were silent, Bunny looking out over the valley where his main tunnels branched out into different continents.

            “How did you know?” Jack asked softly.

            Bunny shrugged. “I can just tell.”

            Jack sighed, plucking grass with his fingers. “I don’t know where I’m going. Everywhere, I guess.” He pulled his knees to his chest. “Pitch is locked away. I’m free, and there’s a whole world out there I haven’t seen. I want to learn it.”

            Bunny nodded, and for a moment they were quiet. “Are you ever coming back?”

            Jack stared at his toes. “Yes. If you want me to.”

            “I do.” He paused, seemingly thinking hard about something. “Jack?”

            “Yes?”

            “Do you love me?”

            Jack’s breath caught on his inhale. He considered his words carefully. “No. But I do _like_ you. I mean,” he grew flustered, “I’m attracted to you, and I know that I _could_ fall in love with you.” He refused to look away from his feet.

            “That’s good.” Jack almost jolted when Bunny pressed his forehead to his shoulder. “I feel the same way.”

            “Oh,” he said softly. When he turned his body, Bunny lifted his face, and Jack took the opportunity to press a quick, courageous kiss to his whiskers. The smile the act earned him made his chest ache.

            “I’ll miss you,” Bunny murmured.

            And Jack replied, “Me too.”

 

*          *          *          *          *

            The next morning, Jack was gone.

 

*          *          *          *          *

**Future:**

 

            Gold sand streamed through the night in bright ribbons. Directing it atop his cloud was Sandy, his smile serene as ever. He was coaxing a particularly good dream to life when he felt it—almost a tug on his sand, an indication that some was being splintered off from the rest. Not an unusual feeling, he was always spider-webbing his sand streams to reach different children. But those had all intentional—this sand was being pulled by something else and separating from the whole.

            Sandy followed the tug, curious, and what he found made him light up excitedly.

            On a flat rooftop a glittering dream dolphin swam in the air around Jack Frost. Jack’s face was soft in the gold light, his eyes calm. He reached out, skimming his fingers over the dolphin. He leaned on his staff as he turned his attention to Sandy.

            “Hey Sandy,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            Alone at his workbench, Phil carved small details into the handle of a wooden spoon. It was to be a gift, and he wanted the design to be perfect. He softly blew away some small shavings, nodding in satisfaction at what was revealed.

            “What are you making?”

            The voice was at once familiar, and new. Phil looked up, and Jack stood in the doorway. But it was Jack as he’d never seen him. He still wore the same hoodie, the same pants, but it was the way he carried himself that made him different. There was a casualness in his posture, an easy, natural kind of confidence that made him seem comfortable in his surroundings.

            Phil stood from his workbench, crossed the room, and swept Jack up into a strong, but gentle hug.

            Jack hugged him back, and it was that action that really made Phil want to cry. Jack had always been so hesitant with touch. Something like this was more than he’d ever hoped for.

            “Missed you,” Jack said.

            Phil nodded, burying his face in Jack’s hair. (And if a few tears slipped out, well, it was only natural.)

 

*          *          *          *          *

 

            North was sketching out a design for a new train set when the door of his office opened.

            “I am a bit busy—,” he made to reprimand, but stopped when he saw just who it was.

            Jack walked in with Phil trailing behind, easy as could be. “Hey North. I haven’t missed anything exciting, have I?”

            “Jack!” North stood with his arms spread wide, and circled around his desk to take the boy into his arms as Phil had. “Has been too long! The only ones who have seen you were the Burgess children.”

            “I know. Sorry I stayed away so long. I was a bit busy.” Jack grinned up at him crookedly, and squeezed back before pulling away.

            “I have heard. New believers popping up across the globe, a decrease in malevolent spirit activity during winter…Jack, you have been a busy man.”

            Jack waved away the praise. “It’s nothing…” But the way he looked down with a tiny smile showed how much the comment meant to him, and how pleased he was with himself.

            Phil laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder and nodded agreement.

            “Whatever you have been doing,” North decided, “it is nice to see you again.”

            And Jack agreed.

 

*          *          *          *          *

            Baby Tooth was on patrol when she heard his voice.

            “Baby Tooth!” He dipped in the air in front of her, and she nearly dropped the tooth she’d just collected.

            He laughed at her startled squawk. “Sorry, sorry.”

            Once she was on control of herself once more she realized the significance of the situation, and let out a plaintive chirp before diving into his chest. Jack cupped his palms around her, and curled his knees to his chest, tucking his chin down. It was the closest he could get to hugging her.

            Jack held her until she squirmed a bit, and he opened his palms. From his chest she looked up at him, her eyes wet and making tiny sniffles. Jack smiled at her. “I know, Baby Tooth. I missed you too.” He leaned down, and nuzzled his cheek against the soft feathers atop her head.

            She poked him with her beak in gentle reprimand, but immediately followed it a soft touch of her tiny hand. Jack used his pinky finger to carefully wipe the tears from her eyes.

            “It’s good to be back,” he said. Then, he chuckled. “Hey, did you know Phil’s seeing a yeti named Debbie?”

 

*          *          *          *          *

            It was a loud call of, “Tooooooth!” that alerted her to Jack’s presence.

            She looked up from her main work station where she directed the fairies, seeing Jack Frost careen through the air and come to an almost recklessly graceful landing in front of her.

            “Jack!” She rushed forward to hug him, and hesitated.

            Jack, however, did not. He wrapped his arms around her back and pulled her into a hug. “Hiya, Tooth.”

            Tooth bit her lip and slid her hands around his shoulders, closing her eyes. “It’s nice to see you, Jack.”

            “You too.” He pulled away, and Tooth noticed the spark of curiosity in his eyes that had always been dampened before, but now shone bright in his wintery gaze. “Actually, there was something I was wanting to ask you about…”

 

*          *          *          *          *

            For Bunny, it was a breeze. Ever since Jack had left, he’d kept his wards tuned to Jack Frost to grant him access to the Warren whenever he wished to return. In a way, he’d left the door unlocked and the kitchen light on for Jack to always find his way back.

            And on that day, it paid off.

            Bunny went still, trowel in hand and knees in the dirt of a flower bed beneath his cottage’s kitchen window. A cool breeze ruffled the hair at his nape, and his ears twitched as barely there footsteps crinkled the grass. He set the trowel down.

            “Been a long time,” he murmured.

            “Hey, Bun.”

            Bunny stood up, brushing dirt from his knees, and turned around. Jack was watching him with a soft look, cheek pressed against his staff as he leaned heavily on it. Aster took a few steps closer, but kept a significant gap between them.

            “What have you been up to?” he asked.

            Jack shrugged, mouth turning up at one corner. “Seeing the world, meeting people, spreading fun. Doing a _lot_ of thinking.”

            Bunny observed his posture. He remembered when Jack had first come to stay with him. Quiet, faded. Like if you took your eye off of him for a second he’d have evaporated in the time it took to look back.

            But it was different, now. He had a sense of content. A baseline happiness, where before there had been nothing.

            Aster was glad to see the person Jack Frost had discovered himself to be.

            “What kind of thinking?” Bunny asked.

            “Well, my memories for one.” Jack swayed a bit, rocking side to side on his feet. “I was kind of hoping they’d come back naturally, but so far I’ve only had vague impressions of something being familiar.” His hand strayed into his hoodie pocket, clutching something kept there. “So I went to Tooth. I was someone before I was Jack Frost, I _know_ it. I just have to find out who. Tooth said she’d suspected as much, and agreed to help me find my tooth box. She said she could use them to restore my memories.” He stopped swaying, and rolled his staff between his palms in a show of slight nerves. “We have a few ideas for starting points, like early 1700s, but it’ll probably still take a while.”

            “Is there something specific you want to know?” Bunny crept a little closer.

            Jack shrugged, and pulled a small, carved figure from his hoodie pocket of a young girl. “This.” Jack showed it to Bunny. “She’s—she’s _important_ for some reason, but I don’t know who she is. I think, I know, my memories could tell me why.”

            Bunny nodded. “You staying with Tooth while the search goes on?”

            “Well, that’s just it.” Jack put the figure away, and watched Aster from under his eyelashes. “You’re the last person I’ve been to see. I kind of was wondering if I could stay with you.”

            Bunny waited, and rather than answer, he tilted his head and asked, “Jack, do you love me?”

            “You know, I’ve had ten years to think about that,” Jack said softly. He shook his head. “I don’t think I do yet, but that’s the thing. If I got to know you a bit more, in a context that wasn’t as urgent as before, I could, very easily.” He looked Bunny in the eye. “I… _want_ to, fall in love with you.”

            In the ten years Jack had been traveling, that was something he’d figured out pretty early on. He’d needed those ten years to fix himself, to rediscover who Jack Frost was and could be—to learn that happiness and pain both existed outside of his former life as the Consort of the Nightmare King. They had passed swiftly for him, carried away on streams of laughter and joy. But he never forgot about Bunny.

            Aster took a deep breath, and impulsively reached out to cup Jack’s cheek in his palm. “Me, too.”

            Jack leaned into the touch, and when Bunny leaned forward to press their lips together, made a little awkward by the differences in their faces, he leaned into that, too. It wasn’t a long kiss, or particularly earth-shattering. But it was warm, and chaste, and natural in a way that was exactly what Jack had wanted.

            Bunny bent so he could hug Jack to him properly, almost lifting the other off his feet. “You can stay as long as you want,” he said. “And you should probably start calling me Aster. It’s what the A stands for.”

            “What about the E?” Jack asked, his arms coming around Bunny’s back and his chin resting on his shoulder.

            “I’ll tell you about that in a couple centuries.”

            Jack chuckled, and squeezed closer. Over Bunny’s shoulder, he saw a reflection of himself in the glass of the kitchen window. He blinked at it.

            Then, he smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I procrastinated in putting this one out, because I was kind of sad to see it end. Sorry if it's not everything you wanted or expected, but this felt like the place to stop.  
> Thank you all so much for making this a well-received, successful series. With this, I've been working on the Myth Among Myths collection for over a year, and I can now mark it as complete. It's been a blast, and I hope to continue writing for this fandom in the future. (But don't expect any chapter fics for a while! I'm sticking to one-shots for a time.)


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